


Not About Angels

by BoMarlowe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Consensual Teenage Sex, Depression, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homophobic Language, M/M, Minor Character Death, Molestation, Not as Bleak as Tags Imply, Overcoming Obstacles, Past Child Abuse, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Abuse, Slow Build, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 94,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoMarlowe/pseuds/BoMarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John died instead of Mary, but Dean is still left to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dean is 15 at the start of this fic and is abused by his stepfather. The Rape/Non-Con elements of this story do not happen between Dean and Cas. If anything like that might be triggering for you, please do not read this story. 
> 
> The fic title comes from the song of the same name.
> 
> Please feel free to ask me questions here: http://bomarlowe.tumblr.com/

“Remember what to do?” Bobby says as calmly as he can manage, a hand on Dean’s knee. “You call your friend?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He tries to mirror the calm in Bobby’s voice, but can’t manage the trick. The word quivers out of his throat and plucks his vocal chords along the way, revealing the scared little boy beneath the mask he desperately doesn’t want to be.

Dean called his friend. Called him and begged him to let him stay there, even for just a few nights until something else could be arranged. Alfie’d said yes, of course. Promised him it was okay even though Dean had been reluctant and vague. Alfie’s good like that, always letting Dean get away without answering questions or offering explanations.

Lies were involved, though. They always are. Dean’s never been to Alfie’s, never stayed the night, and there’s an element of fear trembling within him at the thought. Doesn’t want to end up trapped there like he is everywhere else.

“I wish I could stay with you,” Dean mutters, staring out the truck window at the empty parking lot of an abandoned K-Mart.

The look on Bobby’s face can best be described as pain. “Me too, kid. You and Sammy…you’re like sons to me. I’d take you in a heartbeat,” he says, looking in the opposite direction at the duplex across the street. Sheer curtains distort Mary’s silhouette in the window. She’s watching them. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this. I think – I think this plan will work. It’s gonna be hard, Dean, but I know you can do it.”

Hard. Yes. That’s the word putting all the worms in Dean’s heart, eating him from the inside out.

They’d gone over this a handful of times before they left, and a few more times in the truck on the way over: Bobby drops Dean off in front of his mother’s house and leaves. Dean takes his sweet time walking to the door, waiting until he’s out of his mother’s line of sight before taking off through the backyard and out the other side of the neighborhood. He spends the quarters Bobby gave him to use the payphone at the gas station to call his friend. He stays with Alfie for a couple days and calls Bobby to let him know he’s safe.

That’s as far as the plan goes. Neither of them were willing to plan beyond the next couple of days. He’s not sure if it’s because Bobby doesn’t believe Dean will have the guts to follow through with it, or if it’s just better that neither of them seem too well rehearsed should the law catch up with them.

“I’m scared,” Dean admits. He didn’t mean to sound so utterly broken when he said it, didn’t mean to put that apologetic look on Bobby’s face. He knows it’s not Bobby’s fault. The man shouldn’t feel so guilty for something that’s out of his control.

“I know,” Bobby says, but what he doesn’t say is so much louder. Dean’s thankful that Bobby lets the unspoken words sit like a silent passenger between them, because admitting that Dean has every reason to be scared would be so much worse, and telling him that everything will be okay would be a useless, transparent lie.

It’s starting to get dark out. Dean has a long way to walk if he’s really going through with this, and most of it will be through the bad part of town where his mother has chosen to take up residence. It’s haunting enough to walk through the rows of neglected homes with broken toys littering the front yards, with tattered blankets shielding the windows from curious onlookers passing by.

He’s never quite understood how darkness highlights the things that scare people most, but he believes in that power without reservation. The worst of his life always happens after hours, when the rest of the world sleeps and waits for dawn.

“Bye,” Dean says, because nothing else comes to mind.

He opens the door and hops out of the truck, pulling his backpack on over his shoulder without looking back. Dean slams the door behind him because he’s angry, he’s helpless, and it offers him the tiniest bit of satisfaction even though he knows it pisses Bobby off. It’s not the truck’s fault, but Dean can’t very well take it out on his mother, can he?

As he walks across the street, Dean can sense Bobby’s hesitation to leave. The truck idles on the side of the road longer than it should, and for a moment Dean wishes his uncle would roll the window down and tell him to come back, that it’s okay, he can stay and the law can fuck itself. Dean wants it so bad he can almost hear it, but he knows it will only be another wish unfulfilled.

It’s not until Dean’s sneakers squish into the damp grass of his mother’s lawn that Bobby finally drives away. It feels like a death sentence, being tossed into the center of the Coliseum without a sword and having no idea what lies in waiting beyond the gates.

But now it’s up to him. Dean can keep on walking, can pass the side door that leads up to his mother’s half of the duplex and run down the muddy alleyway until he hits the next street over. He can call his friend or just keep running. He can sleep somewhere safe tonight and maybe even get some his homework done.

Dean actually feels pretty good about Bobby’s plan until Mary locks eyes with him through the window, smiling like a wistful angel through the sheers, happy to see him coming home.

This is the true challenge of it all: smiling back at his mother because he really does love her, yet somehow finding the will to abandon her within the same heartbeat. Dean’s never been good at that no matter how fucked up things get, can’t put himself first when his mother trusts him to be there and fill the empty space John left when he died.

He gives her a wave and a crooked smile, and she waves back.

Dean slows his pace as he rounds the house, still completely undecided. It’s unfair how difficult it is to decide between feeling safe and saving someone else.

When he puts his hand on the doorknob and feels the cool metal against his skin, Dean realizes that running away was never a viable option. Even if he wasn’t an absolute piece of shit, wasn’t scared out of his mind, he could never hurt his mother in the way he and Bobby planned. Hurting her never had anything to do with it, though, her pain would have been an unwanted byproduct of his escape, but Dean can’t smile at her and leave. He just can’t.

He knows Bobby will just give him those sad, whitewashed eyes the next time they meet. He knows Bobby will ask the same questions he always does that Dean has never been able to answer. Either way, someone will be wholly disappointed with Dean’s inability to keep his word. He’d just rather it wasn’t Mary.

It doesn’t stop the worms from slipping out of Dean’s heart into the pit of his stomach as he twists the knob and lets himself in. He doesn’t want to be here.

This door he doesn’t slam, even though he’s angrier than he was before. There are enough slammed doors in this house as it is.

“Hi honey,” Mary says in that sing-song voice of hers, the one that means she’s cheerfully drunk rather than swimming in old memories that make her cry. It’s the best version of her there is, and though it settles some of the squirming in his gut, he knows the night is still young. Much too early for Dean to get his hopes up for a quiet evening.

“Hey Ma,” Dean replies as he drops his backpack onto the table and kicks off his shoes.

Mary is perched beside the window with a glass of wine in her hand, pink and pale to match her rosy cheeks. She’s so beautiful like this, from afar. The color in her cheeks could be a healthy glow, her half-lidded eyes could be narrowed in introspection, even her longing stare out the window could be poetic from this forgiving distance. A stranger wouldn’t know that she’s flushed from six glasses of wine or that her tender smile is despairingly uncontrolled.

There’s an empty box of Franzia by the trash, Sunset Blush. Sounds about right. He knows there are more boxes in the fridge, but doesn’t know how long they will last. Depends on her mood really, but that’s mercurial at best. She’s smiling now, but give it five minutes and she could be sobbing, could be paranoid. The last time Dean was brave enough to measure the wine that passed through his mother’s lips, she’d been up to a box a day. At five liters a box, it’s no surprise that she doesn’t have room for much else.

“You have a good time?” Mary asks, turning toward Dean and adjusting her weight in the seat. Dean supposes his mother is beautiful even if he knows the truth; she really does look peaceful sometimes and he wonders if that’s what she looked like before the years took their toll. He’ll never really know for sure.

Dean sits on the couch, which is thankfully unoccupied by anyone else. “It was great. Bobby taught me how to fix a radiator leak.”

He truly did have fun. The nights he gets to spend at Bobby’s are always a valuable respite, and the relief he feels when he knows he gets to stay the night are the best. Getting to live there would be nothing short of amazing, but his mother would never allow that and to stay there anyway would technically be kidnapping.

Dean’s lucky he gets to go to Bobby’s place at all considering the long and agonizing history between him and Mary, but she wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops in a heartbeat if Dean tried to stay there without her permission. She could be bitter like that.

Hence the plan. Bobby can’t be blamed for what Dean does after he’s dropped off, and if Dean goes to a friend’s house first then Bobby would be cleared of suspicion. There’s just no way to guarantee what happens after Dean actually makes it to Alfie’s, no promise of safety unless he actually opens his mouth and confesses what happens under his mother’s roof.

Bobby has his suspicions, but he can’t call the cops with a hunch. Can’t just say something bad is happening without a single detail to back it up.

“That’s nice.” Mary doesn’t usually say much in response to mechanic stuff. It’s a trick Dean’s learned to use when he doesn’t feel like talking. Anything that reminds her of John is a good way to get her to stay quiet, but it carries the risk of backfiring if it makes her too sad, too nostalgic. Talking about cars is safe enough that it doesn’t trigger any of her more negative impulses.

The television is on, but she’s not really watching it. She’s more of a movie person than an episode person, but even that statement’s being generous. Mary loves music, loves dancing and getting lost in the sounds as the notes carry her away to happier times. Dancing isn’t one of her talents, but it sure is fun watching her do it anyway.

Sam is thankfully not coming home tonight. Dean’s kid brother is a lot smarter than him when it comes to the art of evasion and much better at making and keeping friends, too. Sam’s a bit of a social butterfly. He always needs an entourage around or he gets too lonely, too anxious. Dean’s gotta hand it to him though, because rare is the weekend in which Sam is stuck at home, forced to deal with whatever mood their mother happens to be in. Sam always has an excuse to be gone, always has a birthday party or a sleepover or some kind of invitation to be anywhere else but here.

Dean’s not that good at using people to his advantage. It would help if he weren’t so miserable all the time, weren’t so goddamn transparent. He doesn’t know how to have a casual conversation without lying through his gritted teeth. People talk about fun things, about other people, about themselves and their families. Dean doesn’t have much to offer about any of that.

Mary takes another sip of wine and giggles at something. Dean isn’t brave enough to ask.

Then Len comes out of the bedroom, makes his way down the hall and into the living room where Dean and Mary are sitting in uncomfortable silence.

The way Dean freezes is a knee-jerk reaction, a learned response to Len’s presence. Like an animal in submission, Dean doesn’t look in Len’s direction or even acknowledge the clumsy pat on his shoulder that Len offers. He can’t be too obvious about the way he ignores his mother’s boyfriend or else Len will call him a stuck-up princess again, will accuse him of thinking he’s too precious and pretty for anyone else.

Maybe it’s not too late to sneak out and run off to Alfie’s.

Except one glance out the window assures him that it certainly is. The opportunity is gone and now it’s too dark and too cold to make it to his friend’s house safely. He’s such a fucking idiot.

“Radiator leak,” Len parrots, and Dean can tell the man’s a bit sloshy himself, “that some kind of gay euphemism?”

The laughter at his own joke is expected, as is Mary’s flinch at the hollow accusation. Dean curls his fingers into the couch at his sides and tries not to say anything stupid.

“Knock it off,” Mary says, but the words are light and playful rather than a command. Dean wishes his mother would stand up for him sometimes, wishes she would put more power behind her half-hearted words, but he also wishes she would just shut the fuck up and let the man say whatever he wants without contest. Not because Dean actually wants his mother to be quiet, but because Len is even more unpredictable than she is and nothing positive ever comes from telling Len what to do.

“You’re no fun,” Len smiles friskily as he reaches into the freezer for a bottle of vodka. When he can’t find a clean glass, Len just takes a swig from the bottle and puts it back. “Kinda weird for an old man to be spendin’ so much time with a growin’ boy, right?”

Dean can’t tell if Len is still joking – never can, to be honest – but he can’t stand the way Len mocks the only man Dean’s ever felt close to, felt safe with. It makes him feel sick in a weedy, pathetic way. “It’s not weird.”

“He’s practically family,” Mary adds without blinking, still speaking like a timid mouse. Dean hates that, too. There was a time once when his mother wasn’t so afraid, but those days died when John did.

“Still say it’s weird.” Len plops down onto the couch beside Dean, the springs groaning beneath the combination of their weight. Dean feels a little like groaning, too. “Some old dude living in a graveyard of cars all by himself doesn’t have much business inviting boys over unattended, does he? Givin’ you a little Jesus Juice, huh?” Len is all smiles as he nudges Dean in the ribs, waggling his eyebrows and leaning in close.

Mary doesn’t seem at all disturbed by what her boyfriend is suggesting.

“He’s widowed,” Dean says, but knows it won’t do any good. Len just likes the sound of his voice.

“It’s good for Dean to spend some time with him, you know that.” Mary’s voice is barely audible, slurred slightly from all the wine hitting her system. Dean’s not really sure what she means by that, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

Len shrugs. “S’pose so. Boys need some quality time with Pops. Maybe you and me oughta go campin’ sometime, just the two of us? We’ll leave Sammy with your momma so they can have some quality girl time together.” He’s laughing again, a sickeningly cheerful sound, then leans in the last couple of inches and plants a kiss on Dean’s ear.

To Mary, it probably looks like an innocent, teasing kiss. A quick peck on the ear is no different than the way a father would kiss his son, and maybe to Mary that’s what Dean and Len are. She’s been dating Len for the last eight years and has resigned herself the relationship for what it is. But Dean knows what it really is, what it really means.

His ear feels filthy, identical to the rest of him. Dean wants so badly to shrivel into the couch and get lost with the loose change, but he can still feel Len’s hot breath on his cheek and see the predatory victory in the man’s eyes. This must be how a fly feels while the spider wraps it nicely in a webbed coffin, struggling against the closing sheath encasing its body.

“Sure,” Dean finally responds, because he’s only marginally smarter than the fly. He knows better than to struggle once he’s already caught; spiders bite the ones that writhe the most, and they all end up dead anyway.

Len winks like they’re sharing a secret, and maybe they are. If Mary hasn’t caught on by now, then she probably never will.

Sometimes, Dean thinks that Sam has caught on to what goes on behind their mother’s back. Sam will look at the two of them a little longer than necessary, will ask Dean if he’s okay once Len has left the room. For some reason, those moments between him and Sam feel dirtier than what he endures from their stepdad, and leave him feeling slightly more disgusting than when his ear is kissed or he’s been touched with hidden, strategic fingers.

Dean’s learned how to deal with Len and how to put those unwanted advances in a box to be dealt with later, but he’s never known how to do that with Sammy. He’s had to push his own brother away to keep from lying to him all the time because the lies to Sam always feel worse than the lies to everyone else. It’s a wedge between them that Dean may never dislodge, and that might be for the best. Sam’s life will be cushioned by friendships and freedom, and he’s better off without a big brother clinging to his ankles and dragging him down.

“Game’s on tonight,” Len says, widening his legs until his knee is knocked against Dean’s, their wrinkled jeans scraping together. “Wanna watch?”

Football, probably. Len is a southern guy with strong roots tied to pigskins and barbeques, and doesn’t miss a game for anything. It helps that he doesn’t work most of the year, that he gets to stay home and live off of Mary’s inheritance, but anything that Len loves usually leaves a sour taste in Dean’s mouth and a homesick feeling in his gut.

“Nah,” Dean braves, still darting glances at his mother. She’s not bothered by whatever’s going on inside, focused instead on the pairs of headlights that pass by in uneven intervals. “Actually, uh, my friend invited me over to his place.”

He may have missed his first opportunity to leave, but the heat from Len’s thigh and the drying spit in his ear is enough to risk a second chance. Dean would never be doing this unless he did have an opening to go, and Alfie was sincere in his approval. He’s never been to Alfie’s before and Mary seems to be in a good enough mood to say yes.

Mary turns from the window then, setting her glass of wine down on the coffee table. Her face is predictably surprised. Dean doesn’t have many friends, let alone ones that would invite him over. That’s always been Sam’s thing.

“Oh,” she chirps, and the smile returns to her face. “Are they picking you up? Do you want me to drive you?”

It would be nice if Dean had a real answer for that, if he knew whether or not getting a ride from his friend was a possibility, but he’d rather walk than risk having his mother drive him anywhere after she’s had this much to drink. He can’t forget the fear he felt while clinging to his seatbelt as Mary giggled and swerved over the median, unable to find her way out of the neighborhood which she claimed had suddenly turned into a labyrinth. It took her fifteen minutes to find the main road two streets over.

“I’m sure they can get me,” Dean says with a half-smile and an awkward laugh. He hopes it’s not obvious how much he doesn’t want his mother behind the wheel. “I’ll call him.”

“Hold up,” Len says, stopping Dean’s movements with a firm hand on Dean’s knee. It’s strange to feel so sickened by a gesture that feels so comforting when done by anyone else. “You were gone last night. We already got one princess around here who likes to skip out on his family, alright?”

“I – uh,” Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s like Len’s hand went and flipped a switch that shut off Dean’s ability to breathe because the air feels unreasonably thick and the sensation of crawling centipedes ghost across his skin.

Over by the window, Mary just downs the rest of her wine and shakes her head, setting the empty glass on the sill. “Goodness, Leonard. It’s not like Dean can’t do his chores before he goes,” she says with a look that tells Dean he’d better get them done right away. “Call your friend, honey, then load the dishwasher.”

But the hand still planted on Dean’s thigh tells him that Len wasn’t concerned about the chores, wasn’t worried about Dean pulling his weight around the house. He’s sure pretty sure he knew that even without the possessive grip burning through his faded jeans.

“No need to call,” Len insists, finally taking his hand back with a reluctant speed. “I can give you a ride.”

The only thing worse than being at Mary’s drunken mercy behind the wheel is being trapped alone with Len inside of his stick-shift truck.

When Dean doesn’t acknowledge Len’s offer, doesn’t move from his rigid position on the couch, Mary stands to take her empty glass back to the kitchen. “Just let his friend do the damn driving. Gas is pricey enough as it is without having to drive the boys all over town.” Instead of dropping her glass into the sink, Mary pulls open the fridge and squats until she’s level with the fresh box of wine and refills her glass. “We gotta make it to payday and I still need to get some things from the store.”

Dean knows what things, but doesn’t dare say it out loud. There are times when he’s in the mood to contradict her, to confront her about where the last of their monthly income goes, but he doesn’t have the will or the energy to follow through it. Right now, he just doesn’t care.

Len doesn’t look too pleased, but he must understand what Mary’s getting at because he doesn’t contest it. Len just nods and scratches at his chin before settling deeper into the back of the couch.

Despite the unspoken approval for Dean to get up and call his friend, that blooming sense of unease oozes over his muscles like molasses, pinning him to the couch with needles of dread and uncertainty.

After a minute or so, Len drapes an arm over the back of the couch and lets his fingers brush over the hem of Dean’s shirt. Mary’s still in the kitchen, but Dean’s a little too preoccupied to focus on what she’s doing there. When Len turns, Dean expects his stepfather’s voice to be more of a breath, a gentle whisper, a vocal caress to match the feather-light touches on his shoulder and the slow heat still passing between their too-close thighs – but what he hears instead is, “You gonna call your fuckin’ friend, or what?”

It’s a slow move from the couch. Dean’s traitorous body is gelatinous and unwilling despite the desperate need for some distance.

Len’s hands don’t follow Dean up like he thinks they will; they linger sulkily on the colorful Saltillo blanket draped over the worn cushions on the couch, tracing over the thick black line separating the reds and blues. Len’s eyes don’t follow Dean up either, another surprise. Dean finally manages to fill his lungs with a steady breath when he pulls the phone from its mount and slinks away to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

It takes Dean a moment to search through his pockets for Alfie’s number. He’d scrawled it sloppily in haste during fourth period algebra in the few precious seconds before the teacher came in to start the lesson. It didn’t help that his fingers were shaking and that he only had a smudged piece of graph paper and a dull pencil.

When he finds it, Dean sits on the corner of his bed. It’s just a mattress on the floor shoved into the corner of the room, but he’s never needed much else. He has a closet for his clothes and a nightstand where he keeps his things, and really, anything else would be nice but completely unnecessary. The difference between Need and Want is a lesson Dean learned a long time ago.

Dialing is a lot harder than it should be. He blames it on excitement.

A man answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi. I’m, uh – is Alfie there?”

“Sure is,” the man says, and Dean wonders if he’s Alfie’s father. The voice is lighter than he expected it to be. “Can I tell him who’s calling?”

“Dean,” he blurts, feeling a little stupid. He’s not sure why. “Dean Winchester.”

“Ah, Dean! Alfie’s been expecting you. Just a moment.”

He hears the man call out for Alfie, failing a bit in his attempt to muffle the phone. Either that or the Edlund house is obnoxiously loud, which Dean isn’t sure he believes. He and Alfie are close, and a large part of that is because they can sit in contented silence, can have unhurried conversations about math and mechanics in a way most people would get bored with. For some reason, Dean always pictured Alfie’s family as small and warm with a couple mild-mannered pets to match his welcoming demeanor.

But the handful of laughing, screaming kids in the background and a sudden clattering of dishes paints a very different image in Dean’s mind. It starts to make him nervous, makes him wonder if he shouldn’t just stay home. He doesn’t think he will fit in too well in the middle of the ruckus.

“Hey man,” Dean hears then, and it’s Alfie this time. “You still coming over?”

“If I can, yeah,” he says, but he realizes he’s barely whispering when Aflie makes him repeat himself. “Do you think you can pick me up?”

They’re too young to drive themselves, of course, which means Alfie’s parents will have to do the driving and Dean’s suddenly very afraid of inconveniencing them. He wants them to like him, wants to be allowed over to their place more often.

There’s a pause when Alfie says nothing, and Dean’s about to brace himself for rejection when his friend yells out into the house for someone to give Dean a ride.

“Cas’ gonna pick you up in about fifteen minutes,” Alfie informs him excitedly, breathing heavily into the phone. He’s winded, probably from running around. It’s been a long time since Dean and Sam had fun like that.

“Who?” Dean asks, because he’s never heard that name before and he’s known Alfie for almost a year and a half.

“Big brother. Don’t worry, he’s cool. He’s headed out to pick up some snacks so he’s gonna get you on the way. What’s your address?”

Now Dean’s the one to pause, unsure of what to say. It’s hard enough being the kid that wears the same clothes all the time. He doesn’t want to be the kid that lives in the neighborhood with garbage bags for windows, too.

“Dean?” Alfie prompts with a hint of worry.

“Uh,” Dean starts, considering calling the whole thing off. He reconsiders the alternative of just staying home and keeping Alfie in the blind spot, but with Sammy gone and Mary already three sheets to the wind, home isn’t somewhere he really wants to be. “You, uh, know where the old K-Mart is? I’m on Hayes…the white duplex.”

He waits for Alfie to laugh, to say something rude or hurtful, to change his mind. But Alfie does none of those things, which pulses a pathetic sense of relief through Dean’s weathered heart. “Sounds good, man. See you in a bit. Oh – don’t let Cas forget the Salt N’ Vinegar chips, okay? He always says he forgets but I know he does it on purpose.”

Alfie chuckles about it, then groans into the phone when someone punches his shoulder and the line goes dead.

Dean has fifteen minutes to get ready.

It only takes him about five minutes to change his clothes and another five to throw some overnight gear in his backpack. He considers just leaving his math homework at home because he doesn’t feel like working on it, but he’s pretty sure Alfie will be working on his and they can just do it together. As stupid as it sounds, it’s been a long time since Dean’s stayed the night at anyone’s house and he doesn’t exactly remember the protocol.

By the time he’s back out into the living room, his mother is already stowed away in her bedroom and Len’s watching an old western that looks vaguely familiar. He’s got the bottle of vodka in his lap, the open lid peeking out from between his closed thighs. He’s stretched out on the couch with his arms wide and doesn’t turn to look at Dean once.

Dean wonders if Len just didn’t notice him or if his step-father’s avoidance was intentional. Sometimes those westerns hypnotize Len into a coma-like trance for a few hours, and Dean thinks he loves those hours most of all: everything’s quiet and nothing and no one is touching him.

It’s still too early for Alfie’s brother to show up, but Dean takes the opportunity to slip out the side door and head to the curb where he can wait in peace. He’d kiss Mary goodbye if she wasn’t already so red in the cheeks.

Sometimes the heat of her skin feels unsettling beneath his lips when he gives her a peck before taking off, and maybe it’s all in his head but Dean swears he can smell and taste the wine through her pores. It’s like everything she drinks marinates her flesh and seeps through the gaps in her broken heart. Something so poisonous shouldn’t be that deceptively fragrant, shouldn’t make his tired mother smell florid and sugary sweet.

When he gets to the edge of the road, Dean plops down and sits on the sidewalk with his knees against his chest. It’s dark and most of the streetlamps are busted, but the street has an unobtrusive quality to it that Dean soaks up and settles in as he waits. He feels strangely safe hidden in the dark, knowing he doesn’t have to walk down the row of eerie houses or fold in on himself to keep out the cold.

He doesn’t have a watch, but Dean guesses it’s another ten minutes before a small-looking truck turns onto the street and moseys in his direction. The headlights blind him as the truck approaches before slowing to a stop.

Dean pushes himself up off the ground, a little paranoid for a second that it might not be Alfie’s brother until the passenger window rolls down. “Dean?”

“Yeah,” he says, opening the door and getting a better look inside. “You Cas?”

“That’s me.”

Dean swings his backpack over and off his shoulder into the middle seat before stepping into the truck and pulling the door closed. The truck is so small that it’s almost funny, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen a truck this little in his entire life. It’s black, a single cab with a short bed that sits as low as a car and looks like it came out of a dollhouse.

He’s seen his fair share of odd vehicles before, having spent plenty of time with the bones of old and discontinued cars on Bobby’s lot, but when Dean turns to ask the driver where he found a miniature version of a Toyota, he’s caught off-guard by a pair of curious, lucent eyes.

“Thanks,” Dean says when he can think of nothing else.

“No problem,” Cas says with a voice that’s miles deeper than the father who answered the phone. “Sorry I’m a little late, I couldn’t find the right street. I don’t think I’ve ever been on this side of town before.”

Dean’s not sure if that’s a cleverly cloaked insult or a genuine apology, but he brushes it off because it’s still better than being at home. “Oh, it’s fine. I mean, uh, I didn’t really give the best directions.”

Cas just shrugs and gives him a smile, and Dean can feel his knees go weak and trembling from the gesture.

Alfie’s brother is beautiful, even though Dean feels lame for thinking the word in his head. He tries to search Cas’ face for a family resemblance, but despite the blue eyes they may share, Dean can find none. He’s never once looked at Alfie and felt a fluttering in his chest, never thought of what it might be like to kiss him or hold him close, but Dean’s suddenly full of helium and fireflies for how light and transparent he feels beside Cas.

All this time, all these years, Dean thought he was broken.

It wasn’t just Alfie that didn’t excite him. Dean had been asked out and flirted with by others but felt nothing, no spark and no interest. Kylie Barnes had crowded him against the changing room lockers after gym class, both sweaty and too worked up for coherent thought, and crushed their mouths together as she shoved her hand into his shorts. Dean should have been excited, should have opened his mouth and widened his stance to give her more room to work, but all he could feel was disgust.

He knew even then that the revulsion wasn’t for Kylie, even though he shoved her away and bolted without bothering to change into clean clothes. It was for himself, for the fact that she held his limp, uninterested dick in her hand before he managed to get free. It was for never going on dates, for never thinking about sex more than he had to, for thinking he’d die alone and unloved and touched so much that his skin would be stained from it.

Yet here Dean sits, flooded with a sudden sense of arousal, curious eyes roaming over Cas’ body in a way that’s unfamiliar and a little terrifying.

He can’t decide if he wants to inch closer, to let himself revel in the rush of endorphins, or if he wants run in the opposite direction as quickly and urgently as he can.

So Dean does nothing; it’s the path of least resistance for him, the easiest way for him to handle the emotions he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Alfie says you’re smart,” Cas says, filling the silence. “You take senior level math like he does, right?”

It’s probably just small talk, just a way for Cas not to feel so weird with a stranger in the car, but Dean can’t separate the words from his body’s reaction to them. Was it a compliment? It felt nice, those words. Felt like words Dean wouldn’t mind hearing more often.

“I guess,” Dean mumbles. He’s afraid to let himself accept the words as anything other than a polite statement of fact, a way to fill the void. “I like numbers.”

“Yeah?” Cas lifts a brow at that, glancing in Dean’s direction every so often. He’s still driving slow, careful like he’s seen grandmother’s do on Sunday morning.

“Sure,” Dean answers with a shrug. He’s never good at small talk, one of the many reasons he has so few friends. Alfie’s never minded it, though. Alfie likes numbers and machines and silence as much as Dean does. “Numbers are easy, I guess. They follow rules. Once you know the rules, you know math.”

“I don’t know,” Cas laughs, turning the wheel onto the highway, “I’ve never been much of a math person.”

Now Dean’s the one to laugh, and it surprises him how easily the sound fluttered out of his chest. “A lot of people say that, but I don’t think it’s true. Math is…it’s reliable, it’s always going to be the same. People don’t realize that math isn’t any different than the English language, or any language for that matter. The only difference is that it’s universal. It can be understood by anyone.”

There’s a mild pause. Cas just smiles and cordially shakes his head, looking like he’s heard the same argument a million times. “Alfie wasn’t kidding. You’re gonna fit right in.”

It takes a moment for those words to sink in, for Dean to understand that Alfie must have been telling his family about him, about their friendship. Aflie must have been saying nice things, _smart_ things, and his family apparently agreed that Dean would be a welcome, well-fitting addition to their family on the nights he’d be invited over.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Not yet.

It really has been ages since he’s stayed the night at someone’s house. Not having any close friends certainly made it more difficult to do so, but even if he did have a bevy of best friends to pick from, Dean wouldn’t have lasted very long in their homes anyway.

The difficult thing is that Dean doesn’t even know how to explain it. He hates being at home, hates being around the drunken unpredictability of his mother and hates his stepfather even more than that. Every night he spends beneath his mother’s roof erodes him a little more, wears him down, pushes him just a tiny bit further into the mud. But the times when he attempted escape by staying at a friend’s house, it was rarely successful. He always ended up back in his own bedroom before the end of the night.

Homesickness. That’s what Mary calls it. The sour, fearful feeling that blooms deep within him when he’s curled up beside a friend in their bedroom. Dean agrees with the sickness part, at least. The feeling slithers over him in waves until he’s drowning, until all he can think about is getting out and getting home and curling up on his mattress until the bad feelings go away.

Mary used to say it was separation anxiety, that after John’s death it was simply too hard for Dean to be away from home. Maybe that’s true. Dean can’t be entirely sure since he doesn’t remember his father that well. All he knows is that he’s learned to fear the unpredictable, that not knowing what to expect feels a lot like dying, and it’s nearly impossible to feel secure at a friend’s house when he has no idea what their family is like or what kind of routine they live in.

As much as Dean hates being home, at least he knows what to expect. At least his mother’s inconsistency is consistent.

Bobby’s house is another story. Dean’s always felt safe there, always felt sheltered in the best way. Sometimes Dean thinks all the homesickness he feels is really a longing to go back to Bobby’s rather than his mother’s house, to his bedroom.

Dean didn’t realize he had zoned out until Cas was parking the truck in front of Safeway. He looks to Cas, opening his mouth to explain or apologize, but Cas darts his eyes away and apologizes first. Dean turns red almost immediately, unsure how Cas’ harmless comment had caused him to lose time and why Cas seems more embarrassed by it than Dean is.

“Sorry,” Dean says after Cas, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. He thought getting sidetracked in his own thoughts was rude, but now that Cas’ cheeks are tinted pink, Dean’s not sure what happened.

“I didn’t mean to stare,” Cas explains, but Dean’s still a little confused. “You do that sometimes at school, and I just –” Cas cuts himself off, taking a deep breath, “Sorry. That was weird.”

After several tentative breaths, Dean understands. It’s not complicated, just not at all what Dean was expecting. He had no idea Cas had been staring at him, but that knowledge only deepens the burn creeping over his skin. More than that, it rattles the cage of butterflies still in his chest and the unfamiliar rush hits him for a second time.

“At school?” Dean parrots when the words finish sinking in, “you go to Monroe?”

Cas’ face falls at the question. Dean’s not sure what he said, not sure what he did wrong to make Alfie’s brother suddenly so tense and put off.

“Yeah,” Cas finally says, smoothing his hair forward with a slightly trembling hand. “I’m a senior, so you know, uh…different circles,” he twirls his finger around for emphasis, which Dean can’t help but think is cute, “I don’t hang out with Alfie at school, so that’s probably why you haven’t seen me, but we all go there.”

“Oh.”

And there it is, that budding sense of unease slipping around in his gut like a bundle of eels. Dean doesn’t know Cas, doesn’t know what’s going to happen now that things are awkward, and it’s that fear that makes him want to open the door and crawl back home like a kicked pup.

“We should get Alfie some Cheddar chips,” Cas suggests, softening the mood with a smile. “Just to mess with him.”

Dean finds himself laughing again despite the tension. Cas laughs too, his sweet blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and it soothes the ache deep in his chest just like that.

He’s never been eased like that before, not by someone’s smile and unwavering gaze. Dean’s only known Cas for about ten minutes but already the guy is a cool balm over his fevered insides, a gentle counterpoint to the bruising grip of reality.

Once they’re inside the store, Dean allows himself to look at his friend’s older brother. Sure, he’d looked before in the truck, but only in short glimpses and narrowed pieces. He’d been blindsided by the unexpected attraction and his inability to understand it, by what it meant. But now he’s trailing behind Cas with several steps between them, being careful not to crowd him or be too annoying, so Dean’s got the perfect opportunity to let his eyes wander where they’ve been dying to go.

Cas is wearing a pair of faded jeans, ones with the knees worn down and slightly shredded as a fashion statement rather than from actual use. His black hoodie fits snugly around his body, the wooly lining of his hood peeking out in contrast around his equally dark hair. Cas is like Alfie in that way – always wearing clothes that look a bit overpriced with brand names across them in bold print. Alfie’s never pretentious about it, doesn’t seem to care what’s on his body so long as he’s covered, but it still leaves Dean feeling inferior like a token poor kid in the trust-fund kid’s circle.

Despite the fancy buttons and white-thread embroidery on Cas’ jeans, Dean can’t bring himself to be bothered by it. Cas wears the clothes so well that Dean finds himself in awe of the view, hypnotized by the movement of Cas’ ass as he walks ahead. Dean’s never ogled anyone like this before; he doesn’t even know if he’s doing it right.

“Cheddar,” Cas says as he plucks the Pringles can from the shelf, smirking at his own joke. Dean feels kind of bad for Alfie, and he knows he should be taking his friend’s side by getting the flavor he knows Alfie wants, but the way Cas is practically giggling over the chips makes it worth it.

“What, uh…what’s your favorite flavor?” Dean asks, feeling stupid the moment the words leave his mouth. He’s never been good at small talk.

Cas drops the can in the cart before turning toward Dean. “Sour Cream and Onion, probably. Barbeque is good too,” he says, toying with the zipper on his hoodie, “you?”

When Dean’s heart flutters at the question, he wants to kick himself for being so awkward, so obvious. “Jalapeno.” Christ, he hates it when he’s a meek little mouse.

When Cas doesn’t move for an entire twenty seconds, Dean’s certain he’s said or done something wrong. He takes a step back, scratching the back of his head just to give his hands something to do. It’s better than clinging to himself the way he wants to, better than gripping the sleeves of his jacket in a weak attempt to hide.

Cas doesn’t tease him like Dean expects him to, nor does he walk off in the other direction with a shake of his head like Len sometimes does. Instead, Cas goes back to the wall of Pringles and pulls every single can of Jalapeno chips from the shelf, dropping them one by one into the cart with a clattering thud. Eight cans in total blanket the other items, but Dean has the feeling that Cas would have cleared the shelves of that particular flavor even if there had been twenty.

He can’t tell if it’s a joke (fuck, _please_ don’t let it be a joke) but he doesn’t dare ask, doesn’t want to question on it. Dean just swallows thickly in lieu of saying anything, but it doesn’t wipe the hesitant grin from Cas’ face. Cas blushes when their eyes linger on each other, then turns to push the cart further down the aisle in search of drinks, leaving Dean alone to process whatever the hell just happened.

When the feeling returns to his legs, when he thinks he can walk again without his heart betraying him and pulsing right out of his chest, Dean grabs a can of Salt N’ Vinegar and catches up with Cas at the end of aisle.

҉     ҉     ҉

Dean’s not at all surprised when they get to Alfie’s. He’d been imagining something nice given the way his friend dresses and the packed lunches he brings to school, so the three story home nestled in a pocket of trees on the outskirts of town is nothing short of expected. Neither is the large deck, the acres of grass or the pair of Labradors that gallop into the driveway as Cas parks his truck by the other vehicles. It’s all so perfectly prototypical that Dean has to bite back the urge to puke.

He’s happy for his friend, he really is. But the beautiful home and ridiculous yard reminds Dean once again of how poor and pathetic he is in comparison, that he doesn’t belong here anymore than a chicken does amongst peacocks.

Cas hops out of the truck to greet the dogs, scratching behind their ears and rubbing their faces with tender enthusiasm. Dean had a dog once, a sweet border collie named Penny that used to curl up with him on his bed and twitch in her sleep. She made him feel safe when it was dark, a warm presence beside him burrowed beneath the covers.

These pups seem far more energetic than Penny had ever been, and the sight of them triggers that old sense of nostalgia. But with the way Cas is affectionately batting at their noses, running his broad hand over their backs in smooth movements, Dean can honestly say it’s the first time he’s ever felt jealous of a dog.

“Hey Dean!” Alfie jogs out from the front door, then hops into the back of the truck to grab the bags of groceries. He seems so casual, so comfortable in his skin, and Dean finds himself a little jealous of that too. “What the – why are there so many cans of Jalapeno chips?”

Cas and Dean exchange a knowing glance, neither daring to answer because they don’t really know what to say. It’s a good question, actually. Dean wouldn’t mind knowing what compelled Cas to be so impulsively generous.

But then Alfie sighs with a long, exaggerated breath, rolling his eyes. “Really Cas? Really?”

Cas turns red - a darker, bloodier shade than he was sporting in the store – and returns Alfie’s glare with a sharper glare of his own. He darts his eyes quickly to Dean, but only for a fraction of a second before turning away and leaving the dogs to trail inelegantly behind him.

“At least he got my chips this time,” Alfie smiled triumphantly, an expression Dean isn’t used to seeing on his friend’s face. Alfie’s usually so reserved at school, so focused, but Dean thinks he likes this Alfie, too.

If only he could figure out the exchange between his friend and Cas, what it meant.

It takes a minute for Dean to come back down from the steady high he’d been feeling since Cas had picked him up. He feels a little empty, a little lost now that Cas has disappeared inside. Dean has never felt anything like that before either, and the imbalance he feels as a result is still unsettling. It’s different than the homesickness but close enough that he finds himself yearning to go inside and find him, to follow him around like the drooling dogs until he’s rewarded with a warm hand stroking lovingly behind his ears.

When Alfie drops down beside him, hands full of the snacks and drinks Cas picked out for their family, he gives Dean a suspicious look. Dean’s not sure what that’s about either, but he’s used to being the subject of long, curious stares, so he doesn’t question it. The look disappears so quickly that Dean wonders if he imagined it, and then Alfie’s giving him a friendly nudge with his elbow.

“Oh, shit,” Dean blurts as he follows Alfie through the front door, remembering Bobby. Cas had somehow caused him to forget everything he was supposed to be doing. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure,” Alfie hauls the bags into the kitchen and drops them onto the hardwood floor, leaving them there to be taken care of by someone else. Dean can’t remember a time when he’d ever been allowed to be so frivolous.

From the kitchen, Dean can see into the living room. He doesn’t even know the terms well enough to describe the home his friend lives in, didn’t even know that such a perfect place could exist. It’s like something from a magazine with all those smiling kids circled around a fireplace, parents with dimpled cheeks and blonde hair, with only one glass of wine forgotten on the dining table blurred in the background.

An older woman is curled up on the couch with a thick blanket on her lap and a book in her hands, reading glasses perched on her nose. She’s on the phone, not quite smiling but looking happy anyway. The leather couch is dark, the floor is only a shade lighter and looks freshly mopped. Family pictures dot the walls with smiles and candid poses that make the place feel whole and complete.

Before Dean has the chance to explore anywhere else, Alfie calls out, “Hannah!” He pauses, waiting for a response. When he doesn’t get one, he tries, “Cas!”

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been allowed to yell when someone else was on the phone, either. Must be nice to not to have so many rules.

Cas saunters into the kitchen a moment later, no longer red with anger or embarrassment. He’s changed out of the jeans and sweater, now wearing a loose t-shirt and draw-string cotton pants. Pajamas, probably. Dean can’t seem to stop ogling no matter what the guy is wearing.

“What?” Cas grumbles, not looking in Dean’s direction in a way that’s painfully obvious. The flutter in Dean’s chest stutters to a stop, dropping to the pit of his stomach. His breaths become shallow as he lowers his eyes to the ground, skin prickling with baffled shame. He’s done something wrong. Cas hates him.

“Let Dean use your phone,” Alfie says, and now Dean’s even more embarrassed than before. Cas can’t even look at him, for chrissakes. He won’t be happy about being pressured into letting Dean touch his stuff.

“Oh,” Cas turns toward the living room where the woman sits, still on the house phone. She must be their mother. “Yeah, okay. It’s in my room.”

He motions for Dean to follow him, still avoiding eye contact but not completely ignoring him anymore. Alfie is putting the groceries away now, not paying attention, not really caring whether Dean leaves the room or not. Dean’s not sure what to make of that, but it only adds to the long list of things that seem foreign and strange to him. Alfie’s life couldn’t be more different, and Dean was right to worry; he could get used to this, and that’s a dangerous dream to cling to.

There are four bedrooms branching from the hallway, four doors with posters and names and decorations. Dean can only imagine what kind of expensive furniture lies behind each door.

Cas’ bedroom is at the very end, but the door is already opened with a length of blue fabric draped over it. He waits outside, not wanting to invite himself in without permission. The last thing he wants to do is make Cas more uncomfortable than he already is.

He watches as Cas digs through his backpack, fishing out an iPhone and unlocking the screen with the tap of several numbers. Dean wants to laugh; he’d intended to use a payphone earlier, one of the last few relics of society before the era of cellphones, but now he’s using the latest bit of Apple technology to make his call. For all he knows, that payphone could be the last one in Spearfish.

“Here,” Cas holds out the phone, and this time he’s not avoiding Dean when he says it. The lead wings of the butterfly in his stomach twitch in an attempt at revival.

“Thanks,” Dean says. He gives Cas a smile – a real one, which means he has to use muscles that haven’t been flexed in a while – and Cas’ eyes widen as they fall to watch the curl of Dean’s lips.

They stand there like that for a few awkward seconds, just staring like a pair of imbeciles, and it’s only through sheer determination that Dean finally tears his eyes away and ambles back down the hall, looking for a quiet place to dial Bobby’s number. It’s unbearably confusing and twists him up in new and interesting ways, makes him scared and humiliated yet excited and anxious. Does Cas think he’s annoying? Is he just being nice because Dean’s the dweeby friend of his dweeby little brother?

The house is so large that Dean manages to wander for a minute until he finds a quiet, unused space. He can’t help but notice how their laundry room is the size of his bedroom, and even has a table with a plush chair that he imagines is used for folding laundry. The room has no windows or flowers but it smells of lavender and citrus anyway.

Bobby doesn’t answer the first time he calls, probably because the man doesn’t like to answer a number he doesn’t recognize. Mary’s the same way about that, too. He calls again, and when Bobby finally picks up Dean can tell he’s not in the greatest mood.

“Whaddya want?”

“Bobby, it’s me…uh, Dean.”

“Dean,” he echoes, a hint of disparagement in his voice. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Dean promises, but when Bobby huffs with impatience at the lack of explanation, he adds, “I made it to my friend’s house.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause where Dean listens to Bobby’s muted breaths through the phone. “I saw you go inside, boy. I ain’t mad, but don’t go lyin’ to me.” Dean wants to interrupt so he can tell Bobby what happened, that he really is at his friend’s house, but the scorn in Bobby’s voice hollows Dean out and scrapes him bare. “I won’t be able to help you if I can’t trust you, Dean. You get that, right?”

“I…” Dean starts, but when his eyes start to burn with unshed tears he can’t seem to finish the sentence. It never fails to amaze him how many people he can disappoint in a single day, how pathetically weak he feels after only a few harsh words.

He definitely gets what Bobby’s saying, and he can’t blame the guy. Dean hardly trusts himself either.

“This Leonard’s phone?” Bobby asks when Dean starts sniffling like a baby, too embarrassed to fill the silence.

It takes a few deep inhales to steady his shaky voice, but Dean manages to answer this time. “No. Alfie’s.”

“Huh,” Bobby says with genuine surprise. “So Mary knows you’re there?”

“Yeah,” Dean’s monosyllabic answers are all he can afford right now. Anything longer or more detailed will give away just how close he is to crying and he’s embarrassed enough as it is.

“Glad you’re there, kid. Have some fun, will you?”

“Sure.”

Dean hangs up the phone before either of them can say something else, before he starts crying and gets sent home by a family that doesn’t feel like dealing with some snot-nosed weirdo hiding in their laundry room.

The cuff of Dean’s sleeve feels rough and abrasive against his sensitive eyes, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know his eyes are red and mottled with the evidence of how fucked up everything feels right now.

Dean doesn’t want to be at Alfie’s anymore; there’s no way he can just sink into the shadows without people coming to look for him, and they’ll inevitably find him curled in on himself with tears in his eyes and salt stains running down his cheeks. He doesn’t know if he can put on another artificial smile and pretend like everything’s normal.

No one would understand if he tried to explain, either. Most kids don’t have any idea what it’s like to be faced with the kinds of sickening decisions Dean must endure, don’t have to weigh the pros and cons of betraying a mother who’s too drunk and unwell to take care of herself. Most kids don’t have to pretend to be asleep to get through the worst of it until exhaustion takes over and gives them mercy.

Dean didn’t realize he’d left the door open until he sees a looming figure standing just outside.

It’s Cas. Of course it is. Probably looking for his phone that Dean disappeared with.

Swallowing his pride, Dean’s about to ask if he can just get a ride home, that he’ll get out of their hair and go back to the muddy hole where he belongs, but the overpowering smell of soap and the sound of water running in the washer reminds him that he completely forgot to do the dishes before he left.

No, it’s better that Dean stays here where he’s safe. Better to let Len cool down before Dean goes home and faces the consequences.

Looking up at Cas, Dean forces a smile that barely compensated for the tears and says, “Don’t suppose you guys have any jalapeno chips, do you?”


	2. Chapter 2

No one mentions the crying. 

Dean’s grateful for it despite the embarrassment, still feeling like a well-worn sheet of origami paper as he tries to fold himself inward once again. He pushes the food around on his plate and only brings little bites to his mouth when no one is looking. No one asks about that either. 

The food is delicious, which only makes it harder. Becky’s a great chef and her husband and children don’t know how lucky they are to have her. Dean would shovel the food into his face and lick the plate clean if he could, if he were alone or veiled someplace where no one could watch him. Len’s told him enough times that Dean can be distracting when he eats, that the way his lips move or close around a fork is a sultry, welcoming tease. 

Dean’s tried to stop, but he doesn’t know what his mouth is doing in the first place and he’s found that it’s a lot simpler to just stop eating. 

With everyone sitting at the dining table, it’s easier for Dean to see the family resemblance. They’re all blue-eyed and smiling, talking about Hannah’s test scores and how well she did at her last diving competition. Dean can’t help but wince as he listens to it; he didn’t even know their school had a diving team or that Alfie had any siblings. He knows next to nothing about the person he considers to be his closest friend and he hates himself for it. 

When Dean chances a few glances up, he finds a little relief in knowing he’s not the center of attention and takes the opportunity to try the steak. 

The initial burst of flavor on his tongue is expected, but the lingering aftertaste of seared beef and spices rouses a more dormant hunger he’d suppressed out of necessity. Dean’s used to hunger, to eating what’s available and being satisfied with his meager portions, but the opportunity for fullness is before him and his need to stay hidden slips to the back of his mind like an afterthought. 

He doesn’t check to see if people are watching him, doesn’t care. He takes another bite of steak and then another, trying to settle the excitement kindling within. There’s an entire plate of food with extra in serving bowls on the table, and though he’d be humiliated to ask for more, he knows he can go to sleep tonight with a full stomach.

For a time, Dean’s unaware of how long he’s focused solely on his plate. It’s not until he lifts his attention to his glass of milk that he catches several pairs of eyes watching his movements. Becky is smiling at him with the warmth and reassurance of a pleased mother, Carver’s nodding at him as though he’s done something worthy of congratulation, and Cas is watching him with widened eyes and slightly parted lips in a way that’s all too familiar. 

It’s not quite the heavy gaze of Len’s undivided attention, but it’s enough to scare Dean back into bird-like bites with the sleeve of his sweater posed carefully in front of his mouth. 

Dean drops his eyes back to his plate in submission, though he’s not entirely sure who he’s submitting to. Carver is the head of the home and yet his regard is the least of them, the gentlest. Becky’s presence is that of an extended wing; encouragement more than judgment. Must be Cas’ look, then: a well-known appetite on a foreign face. Dean surrenders to that look at home, but it never makes him color like it does now. He can feel his skin flushing with the bloom of skittish roses on his cheeks and he’s suddenly very aware that there isn’t enough sleeve to cover all of his face. 

“You’re so subtle, Cas,” Alfie laughs, elbowing his older brother in the ribs. Cas jerks his head away and makes an uncomfortable face, a blend between anger and shame that Dean’s sure he’s sported himself. 

“Shut up,” is Cas’ clever response, accompanied by a blush of his own. Becky giggles at the exchange as Carver shakes his head with a fond grin. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Dean,” Becky says, sincere with pride. “And stop gawking, son. I like this one and want him to come back.” 

She winks when Dean’s head darts back up, his eyes catching on Cas’ a moment before hers, and it’s a little more exposure than Dean can handle. 

“Uh.” Dean’s vocabulary shrivels on his tongue, the unspoken words like wilted leaves leaving a muddy taste in his mouth. 

Alfie pushes his plate away and rises from the table, tugging on the shoulder of Dean’s sweater. It’s a little too close to Dean’s neck for comfort, so he flinches involuntarily at the touch, cupping the side of his neck for protection. Alfie pauses, but only long enough to step back and clear his throat. “Come on, man,” Alfie says, saving Dean from further embarrassment, “I wanna show you something.” 

Dean accepts the mercy being offered to him and rises from the table as well, thanking Becky for the meal he got to briefly enjoy. He’d look at Cas once more if he weren’t so afraid to, if the temptation to do so wasn’t prickling so fiercely beneath his skin. 

He follows Alfie down the hall he’d been through once before, admiring the pictures on the wall like he did the first time. He wonders if Mary has any of their photos around somewhere, in a box or stored carefully on a shelf in a closet. Maybe she treasures them when she’s alone and her hands need to hold something other than a glass of wine. 

Alfie’s room is different than Cas’, but not by much. Dean didn’t get a good look at Cas’ but he did see a loft bed with a computer desk, and possibly a fish tank. Alfie has a loft bed too, which shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. Wealthy families usually have nice, expensive furniture. 

“You ever play Resident Evil?” Alfie asks, turning on the television in his room and grabbing some kind of controller. 

“No,” Dean admits, watching as the screen lights up and flashes with blood-smeared zombies.

“It’s fun.” Alfie tosses one of the remotes and it collides with Dean’s chest. He scrambles to catch it before it falls and manages to get a hand on it just in time. Alfie sits on the floor and pats the space beside him, inviting Dean to join. “Pop a squat.”

‡ ‡ ‡

They play for hours. 

Dean doesn’t think there’s ever been a time when he’d melted into his surroundings and played games, when he just laughed unfettered for the sake of laughing and let himself be absorbed by a screen. 

Len’s against that sort of thing. He believes that movies and games rot the mind and make mindless sheep in children’s clothing. Gushes all the sense from one’s brain faster than blood from a Tennessee nose-pull.

Bobby’d probably let them play video games if he had some kind of console or the money to buy one, but his income is basic and barely enough to cover the cable so he can watch his morning news. Not that Dean’s complaining. Dean wouldn’t trade their time together working on the Impala for anything. 

Dean’s ass has been handed to him on a variety of platters at this point, served with a side of his dignity that he lost somewhere between the tenth time a zombie killed him and the twentieth, but it doesn’t deter him in the least. Like the food, Dean’s cravings for more than silence and solitude have reawakened.

It’s close to two in the morning by the time they finally wrap up, and Dean’s eyes are half-lidded and blurry from exhaustion. Aflie keeps nodding off and jerking back into consciousness, so he tugs a couple blankets from his bed and hands one to Dean, curling up on the floor. 

Dean mirrors his movements, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders but leaving his jeans on even though it’s a little uncomfortable. It’s not something he gets to do at home.

“Hey Dean?” Alfie mumbles, words slightly muted by the way his lips are half-pressed into the carpet. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

Dean’s tired, senses sluggish from fatigue, but somehow his heart manages to speed in his chest. “Sure.”

“You, uh…you like anyone at school?”

“What?” Dean nearly chokes on the word as it blurts from his mouth, the irony crawling up his spine and making him twitch. He’d avoided these kinds of conversations for so long, kept most people just beyond arm’s reach for this reason. Alfie never asks stuff like this. 

“Sorry,” Alfie offers, almost retreating, “I mean, you know, you just never seem that interested in anyone.”

Dean steadies himself with a slow breath and a tighter grip on the blanket. “I – I don’t know,” he confesses, and he’s not sure why that makes him feel so naked. 

Alfie seems to mull that over, though the tiredness they both feel could be taking over his thoughts and lulling him sleep. Dean can’t tell. Dean’s nearly asleep himself by the time Alfie finally replies. “Are you into dudes?” 

The spit in Dean’s mouth sours and dries up, receding into him like soldiers running from the frontlines. He wants to run, too. Wants to kick off the blanket and bolt out the door and run until he’s hidden and no one can look at the way his skin pebbles from the question. The grip he has on the blanket tightens further, enough to pull it up over his head like a shield, pathetic defense though it may be. 

The question makes him think of all the orgasms wrenched reluctantly from his body, makes him wonder if it would have been any different if Len was a woman or a pretty girl his age. He’d been trained so well and so thoroughly to respond the masculine rasp of Len’s voice that he may never know if the soft song of a woman’s chords could have been something he’d enjoy. 

And really, there’s never been anyone other than his stepfather to force that kind of pleasure from him, to see him come apart while bathed in shadow and shame. Dean had given up hope that there would ever be anyone else. 

Until Cas, but those are feelings Dean is still trying to sort through. He doesn’t know what Cas is to him yet, or what those butterflies mean when they flutter into the hollowed cavity of his chest. Sex and fear have been mutually inclusive for so long that he can’t help but shiver at the thought. 

When the silence drags on for too long, when Dean can sense his friend peering at him through the flimsy protection of the floral patterned blanket, he says, “Yeah.”

He hopes it’s the truth. Better than being heeled or broken. 

Alfie doesn’t make a surprised noise, instead letting Dean’s painful concession hang in the air between them to dissipate like a passing fragrance. 

“Cool,” Alfie says, and Dean assumes the rustling of his friend’s movement is a shrug or some other kind of assent. “Thought so. Cas is like…super gay, and he never seemed that interested in anyone before either.”

“He’s –” Dean stops himself, biting down on his tongue before he can say anything more. Of course he suspected that Alfie’s brother was entertaining certain fantasies when he was staring so unashamedly at Dean, but the lines between desire and orientation are so blurred that it’s a difficult concept for him to understand. 

Len says he’s not gay, he swears by it. Len kisses Mary when they’re out in public and sometimes Dean can hear his own mother’s moans late at night no matter how hard he tries to shut them out. The lurid fact that he and his mother share the same man is something Dean refuses to acknowledge for the sake of his sanity. He knows that Len is sick and damaged and using Dean to propagate the illusion that Len’s entirely in control. 

Dean’s never considered that someone could look at him as anything other than a pawn, a kill-switch to end their own cycle of misery. 

The idea that Cas is looking at him because he’s actually gay, that there might be some level of mutual attraction sends a chill of excitement down his spine and a pulse of dread in his heart. 

Alfie is barely hanging on to consciousness by a thread, but he must understand at least part of what Dean was going to ask because he says, “Yep. Gay. Been out for like, years, so it’s not a secret.”

“Oh, that’s…” Dean has no idea what to say in regards to someone else’s sexuality. Cool? Interesting? Not of consequence? He finally settles on, “…good.” 

Alfie mumbles something in response, but then he’s snoring and rolling over onto his back. 

Dean closes his eyes as well, and lets himself drift off without the pinprick of fear needling at skin. He’s safe here, he knows. No one will be nudging him awake and slipping beneath the covers with rough, covetous hands. 

‡ ‡ ‡

Dean wakes slowly of his own accord, and it’s nice. Different. He’s starting to see the appeal of being away from home more often. 

The blanket had slipped during the night, now crumpled into a ball tangled around his feet. He feels a little sore from sleeping on the carpet but it’s nothing he hasn’t done plenty of times before. It doesn’t take more than a stretch of his arms and a twist of his stiff back to feel a little better, anyway.

Blinking, Dean takes in the bruised color of the sky through the window, noting the point of the sun where it rests high behind a berth of clouds. His head is groggy in an unaccustomed way that leaves him to conclude that he’s overslept, that’s he’s somehow managed a night of more than five hours of shut-eye. 

It would explain Alfie’s absence, too. The room is empty but the light is on, not that it needs to be with the curtains pulled back and being this late in the morning. Even Alfie’s blankets have been folded and put back on the bed, which makes Dean wonder how he slept through it. He’s learned to sleep light with one eye open and yet he’s been passed out in a strange room with light and noise and movement without waking once. 

Dean pushes himself up from the floor and scrubs a hand over his tired face, then over the wrinkled clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He makes a noise of displeasure when his jeans refuse to straighten out and then hears that noise mirrored by someone nearby, by someone watching him. 

Darting his head up, Dean’s eyes widen as he startles and steps back, instinct kicking in and cowing him against the wall. Cas is at the door, watching, apologies written on his face when he realizes he’s been caught. 

“Hey,” Dean greets a little shakily and he regains his composure, reminding himself that he’s not at home and that Cas isn’t a threat. He feels a little awkward and self-conscious under Cas’ gaze with how often he’s been stared at, like a small animal in a petting zoo under the constant barrage of patrons wanting to see, wanting to touch. Dean’s still not ready to admit just how much he likes it. 

“Sorry,” Cas says, and it occurs to Dean that he’s heard Cas apologize more than he’s said anything else. “Mom and Alfie sent me to wake you up so you could eat.”

Dean’s afraid to ask what time it is, because he’s certain the rest of the family has been up for some time and has already eaten breakfast. Dean’s not much of a morning person, and definitely not much of a breakfast person, either. Sure, he cooks for Sammy in the mornings when his little brother requests it, but coffee is usually enough to keep Dean going until the early afternoon. 

“Oh. Okay.” Dean says, because he doesn’t have the heart to turn them down or refuse their food. That would be rude, even though the knot in his stomach will probably keep him from eating anyway. Being seen last night was more than embarrassing enough. 

Cas pushes the door open wider and Dean can see that Cas is wearing the same thing he had on last night. It’s distracting how good it looks, and scary how Dean’s not sure what to do with that information. Being attracted to someone already seems like such an awful burden and he’d very much like it to stop.

Or for something to come of it, but Dean’s got plenty of practice not getting his hopes up.

There’s a chain around Cas’ neck, thin and gold, one that Dean didn’t notice before if Cas had been wearing it. It’s tucked safely behind Cas’ shirt but is peeking out over the curve of his nape, glittering under the dull light from the ceiling fan. 

Cas must notice, because he rubs nervously at his chest where the pendant must be and clears his throat. “Wanna see something cool?”

Dean knows he’s not talking about the necklace, but nods his head anyway. 

From the hallway, Dean can hear the sound of a bustling, happy family in the kitchen and living room, laughing along with the light clanging of dishes. It stokes the black coals in his heart that leave him jealous, leave him wanting for something like that of his own. It reminds him of what’s waiting for him at home. 

He follows Cas down the stairs, and at first he thinks they’re headed toward the laundry room where he’d hidden the night before. It sends a nervous prickle down his spine but he keeps up with Cas anyway, more excited to see whatever it is he’s being shown than scared. 

Across from the laundry room are beautiful French doors that lead into a home office, one with rows of books lined high on shelves and a large desk right in the center. The office is easily twice the size of his bedroom at home, with more books than Dean has ever seen outside of a public library. That’s basically what it is in here: a private, well-stocked library just for the Edlund family. Their own personal collection. 

“Wow,” Dean says, awed, surprised at how badly he wants to pluck one of the books from the shelf and curl up in the corner to read. It’s been so long since he’s been able to just sit and get lost in a book, just like it’s been forever since he’s played video games or laughed or slept. He’d forgotten how easy most people his age have it. 

He remembers too late that Carver is a writer, and apparently a successful one. Alfie had mentioned a series his father had written with a small but passionate following that brought the Edlund name into the spotlight. It must be wonderful for Carver to have a job that he loves and gets paid well for. 

Len doesn’t really work, but when he does, he complains about it every day at home. Says he does it to keep a roof over their head and that Dean should be more grateful. Should thank him. 

Cas is beside him, watching him take in the room all at once. The smile that creeps over Cas’ face gives him away as he beams with pride, and Dean thinks that must be wonderful, too. Dean’s proud of his father but never gets the chance to show it. Kind of hard to do when his father is dead. 

“Over here,” Cas motions pointing to the far corner behind Carver’s desk. Dean feels a little strange being in the man’s workspace, but Cas isn’t acting like it’s a big deal so Dean just follows his lead. He looks to where Cas is motioning and sees a silver cage, and he’s not sure how he missed that. Must have been too distracted by all the books. 

“Is that…” Dean pauses, inspecting the cage closer once they’re right next to it. It’s a dark little ball of fur with a fluffy tail and smells suspiciously like peanut butter. “Is that a squirrel?”

“Yep,” Cas laughs, sticking his finger into the cage and stroking the end of the broad, chestnut tail. “My dad found him last summer on our deck. He was just a little baby, and had a fractured leg I think. Alfie named him George.”

“George?” Dean lifts a single brow at that, wanting to laugh at Alfie’s name choice. Such a strange name for a pet. 

“George Bushytail,” Cas clarifies, and then Dean really is laughing. “Alfie thought it was hilarious.”

Dean feels silly for laughing, but the squirrel is just so small and he’s never seen one this close before, and the name is funny and Cas is cute when he smiles and Dean knows he’s incredibly, irrevocably screwed.

“I’ve never seen a squirrel as a pet before,” Dean confesses, threading his own finger through the bars of the cage so George could investigate the new hand with new smells. The little paws and teeth tickle but he doesn’t pull away. He’s still smiling, on the cusp of laughing again when Cas sighs beside him and Dean realizes he’s made a spectacle of himself again.

He’s really got to learn how to control his expression, how to keep himself from being noticed. It’s not fair that he’s such an unfair distraction for people. Len tells him as much all the time and Dean would just disappear altogether if he could. 

Cas is watching him with that look again, but instead of stopping when Dean lifts his eyes to meet Cas’, they end up staring at each other and waiting for the other to make the first move. 

What that move would be, Dean doesn’t know, but the longer they stare at each other the more strange and awkward it gets. Dean may end up punching the guy or running in the opposite direction just to get it to stop. 

“Castiel!” It’s Becky’s voice calling from the top of the stairs, and it pulls them both from their locked moment of weirdness. Cas rubs the back of his neck, twisting and rolling the chain a bit and bringing Dean’s attention to it again. 

“Coming!” Cas calls back, turning red, and Dean’s comforted by the knowledge that he’s not the only one embarrassed and confused by their little staring contest. At least he’s not the only one who has no idea what they were doing. Cas steps away and puts a little distance between them before asking, “you hungry?”

No, not really. Not for food. “Sure.”

‡ ‡ ‡

Dean can’t stop looking at Cas. 

He didn’t realize he was doing it at first, didn’t even notice that Alfie’s brother had somehow completely taken over his attention, his thoughts. 

Over breakfast, Dean had nibbled on a few pieces of bacon while stealing inconspicuous glances at Cas on the other side of the table. Dean had spent the entire meal constructing inventive ways in his mind to watch Cas pick at his food and by the time they’d both finished, Dean was disgusted himself. 

Even now, they’re all sitting together in the living room watching childish cartoons, but Dean can’t seem to focus on the television at all. He’s watching the screen but not really seeing it, completely consumed by the long, masculine lines in his periphery.

It makes him feel gross, almost predatory. He doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do with all these confused, mucked up feelings that leave him wanting more, wanting to be touched. That concept alone is so foreign and frightening that he wonders how other kids handle it. It’s all Dean ever hears them talk about: who’s hot, who they’d like to fuck, who they have fucked. He’s never been able to tolerate those conversations, couldn’t relate. Until now. 

Dean doesn’t want to think about sex, but he wouldn’t mind touching Cas, just a little. Letting their shoulders brush, sharing the same air, holding his hand. Dean would like to stretch out on the floor beside him and fall asleep to the sound of his voice. 

The phone rings, and Dean finally thinks to look at the clock on the wall above the fireplace. It’s just before one in the afternoon, and he has a fairly good idea of who’s calling. Alfie answers the phone on the fourth ring, then hands it over to Dean after only a few seconds. 

“For you,” Alfie says with a smile, “I think it’s your dad.”

Not my dad, Dean wants to say but doesn’t. It’s not worth explaining. 

He takes the phone and presses it reluctantly to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey champ,” Len says, more sober than Dean had anticipated. “You ready? I’m comin’ to pick you up.”

Dean’s not ready, but he knows it isn’t a question so much as it is an instruction to be ready if he isn’t already. “Yeah.”

“What’s the address?” Len asks, and it occurs to Dean that maybe Len doesn’t have to pick him up, doesn’t have to come here. Would be easier for Cas just to drive him back since he already knows the way and Dean wouldn’t mind a few extra minutes just sharing the same space with him. 

But he can’t work up the courage to suggest it, knows Len would just say no anyway, so he relays the address with a sigh and returns the phone to Alfie. 

Len promised to arrive within thirty minutes, so the countdown begins. Dean’s stomach knots and flips in the tight space just below his ribcage, threatening to bring up everything he’d managed to eat for breakfast. He considers excusing himself to the bathroom for a while, just so he can slow the pace of his heart and wipe the sweat gathered on the back of his neck, but after a minute of watching the clock and biting back the anxiety threatening to rip open his chest, Dean figures he’d rather suffer on the couch than suffer silently alone in the bathroom. 

He doesn’t want to go home with thoughts of Cas on his mind, with the fluttering images of Cas’ lips on his still fresh in his thoughts. It’s wishful thinking, but Dean doesn’t want to sully the first fantasies he’s ever had by associating them with Len, by getting them dirty by dragging them across the floor that way. 

Without realizing it, Dean had somehow curled in on himself closer than before since hanging up the phone, knees pressed tight against his chest with his arms pinned closely to his sides. He’s not looking at anyone, not watching the television, just staring blankly at a light stain on the couch’s arm. 

Cas shifts beside him, adjusting his weight and tucking his feet under his legs before taking a sip of his coke. Dean can see the movements from the corner of his eye but he doesn’t dare turn his head. He needs to shove Cas out of his thoughts before Len shows up. 

That proves to be a difficult task when Cas leans closer, just barely, and says, “You should come over more often.”

Dean feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment, still too afraid to look up but willing to glance over in his direction. He says nothing, but nods as he scrapes his nails lightly over the surface of the couch. 

From the kitchen, Becky calls for Alfie to come do the dishes. As much as Dean would love to be alone with Cas again, he feels better having both boys in the living room with him. He watches Alfie move from the carpet, but instead of heading to the kitchen he simply gives Cas a strange, suggestive look before turning back to watch the show. Cas looks nervous but mumbles something Dean can’t quite make out before going to the kitchen to do Alfie’s chores. 

Sam’s rarely home, and Dean’s older by four years so he’s generally the only one around the house to do the cleaning. Mary likes to sleep in until noon and Len says it’s not the man’s job to do that kind of stuff. Dean sometimes wonders what that makes him. 

Len should be here soon, and Dean knows it’s probably best if he’s outside waiting for him when Len finally arrives. There’s too much Len could see if the door swings open and he’s allowed to come inside, too much that Len could use as leverage over Dean’s head. 

Assuming he’s not pissed about having to get out of his truck first. 

Dean’s preemptive with his strategy, standing from the couch and walking to Alfie’s room to grab his backpack from the floor. He’d forgotten about his math homework and didn’t brush his teeth this morning, but that’s fine. Nothing he can’t do from home. He considers just slipping out without saying goodbye because he’s never been great at that, he doesn’t know the proper etiquette when it comes to that kind of stuff, but he wants to be invited back. Disappearing without a word might not be helpful. 

“Hey,” Dean says when he’s back in the living room, standing awkwardly to the side closest to the door. “I’m gonna wait for him outside. I’ll, uh…see you later.”

Alfie seems surprised, maybe even a little concerned, but he doesn’t ask. Dean’s still thankful even though he knew to expect it. Last night’s inquisition into Dean’s life was just a fluke, just an accident because they were so damn tired. 

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Alfie smiles, offering a small wave. “You want me to walk you out?”

“No,” Dean insists too quickly, “No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.” He gives Alfie a small wave back and swings his backpack up over his shoulder, then heads out the front door. He wonders if he should have said goodbye to Becky or Carver, too, but he’s already outside and it would be kind of awkward if he went back in. 

Len is surprisingly punctual for a guy that drinks when he drives, so Dean’s a little disappointed when he doesn’t have much time to just sit and soak in the sunshine and the light breeze that carries it. It’s warm, about forty degrees, and the small piles of snow browning as they melt into the driveway. He likes that he feels safe outside here; guarded and comfortable. 

But he can hear Len’s old Ford coming loud and clear as it rumbles and sputters like a corpse revived, whining as the wheel turns and grinds the tires against the road. It’s one of those noises that settles deep within his gut and sprouts up little leaves of terror. 

Len spots him as he pulls in, driving the truck right up to where Dean is standing, waiting. He opens his door and hops out just as Dean gets his hand on the passenger side handle. 

“Uh-uh,” Len shakes his head, motioning for Dean to come around the truck, “this side.”

Dean’s heart sinks. He’d been afraid of this. 

Len’s truck is old, two-tone and mercurial like Len himself. The bench seat is hard and narrow with two formed footwells that exclude the center seat, which really wasn’t meant to be a third seat at all. Dean’s used to being stuck in the middle while on long errands because Len likes to stick his cooler in the passenger seat and can’t be bothered to move it. 

It probably also has something to do with the elongated gear shift Dean has to practically straddle every time. 

Biting his lip, Dean rounds the front of the truck without a word and climbs into the front seat. Sure enough, Len’s cooler occupies the passenger side and Dean must wedge himself into the narrow space between it and Len. There’s barely enough room for Dean’s right foot to fit into the far footwell given all the extra crap crammed down there, so it’s with a great sense of powerlessness that he takes his position in the middle and forces each foot into a different footwell instead of just the one. He tries not to think about how far that spreads his legs open. 

As expected, the knob of the long gear shift sits right between his parted legs, and the best Dean can hope for at this point is Len’s indifference to that fact. 

Len jumps in beside him, slamming the old creaking door and settling in comfortably behind the wheel. Dean takes a final look at Alfie’s family home, large and beautiful as it is, and hates that he feels like he’s in his place now, where he belongs. There’s a certain sense of comfort of being able to fit into the mold he’s been shaped for, even if he doesn’t like it. 

“Nice house,” Len says, following Dean’s gaze up at the long windows. “Rich family, huh?” 

Dean shrugs, unwilling to explain. After the night he spent there, the Edlunds feel like a secret he needs to keep close. He’s not ready to explain them to Len. 

Len drops a hand to the gear shift knob, his long fingers dangling down and brushing against the inner thigh of Dean’s jeans. He lets his hand drag across Dean’s leg when he shifts to get the truck going, then rests his palm on Dean’s knee once they're back out on the main road. 

This kind of touch usually pushes Dean further back into his mind, shutting off and accepting the affection to keep on the path of least resistance, but now he can’t focus, can’t redirect his thoughts. The nerve endings in his knee are alight and sparking, warm under Len’s hand, and Dean can’t think about anything else no matter how hard he tries. 

He wonders how Cas’ hand would feel in Len’s place, if the weight would be the same, if the warmth would feel any different. Would he want Cas’ hand to creep higher, to curl around the top of his thigh squeeze? 

There’s never been a time Dean’s wanted that from Len, but that never stopped him. It never stopped the act from feeling good, either. Dean can’t deny the number of orgasms he’s had under Len’s touch, he can only blame his reluctance on the sickened, twisted up feelings that take him over every time Len’s near. Dean’s heart and dick have never been able to agree on what they want and he can’t stop the way his body reacts under Len’s tutelage no matter how badly his heart wants to object. 

Cas is the first person Dean’s heart as ever wanted but his body isn’t free to agree, to pursue. Dean belongs to someone else, unfortunately. He may never have that liberty. 

And really, Dean doesn’t even know Cas. They’ve only just met and shared a few solitary moments together. For all Dean knows, his heart could change his mind and then everything can go back to normal. 

“Sit on that thought any longer and it’ll hatch,” Len jokes, stroking his thumb over the inseam of Dean’s jeans. 

Dean turns red and looks away, leaning against the cooler. 

“Whatchya thinkin’ about so hard?” Len pushes, gently shaking Dean’s leg to regain his attention. Dean doesn’t want to talk, so he shrugs again and makes a vague, noncommittal noise. It’s not enough for Len, though, because he adds, “Speak up, princess. I don’t like asking twice.”

Dean’s heartbeat becomes erratic, but he’s gotten better at not making that obvious, at keeping his fear under control. He doesn’t know what to say that won’t anger his stepfather: how can he tell Len that he thinks he has a crush on someone? How could that conversation end any other way than with regret?

Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, Dean finally thinks of a half-truth he can get away with. “Alfie’s dad is a writer,” he starts, remembering the library and the squirrel, “I was just wondering what that might be like.”

Len pauses, considering Dean’s statement. The look on his face doesn’t quite reveal the boiling anger beneath, but Dean remembers too late that he shouldn’t have mentioned dads to Len. Like Mary, he has triggers of his own that lead to emotional outbursts and volatile repercussions that Dean will have to endure by himself. 

“You mean…what it would be like to have a successful father who writes shit?” Len tries to clarify, but of course that’s not what Dean meant. He only meant he liked the idea of writing, of being good enough for publication. Leave it to Len to darken and perverse the words Dean intended to be passive. 

“No, I –”

“Dean,” Len interrupts, silencing him. Dean snaps his jaw closed and bites down, mentally screaming at how stupid it was to try and argue his point. He should definitely know better by now. “I’ve tried real hard to be good to you. Raised your ungrateful ass since you were little.”

Dean considers agreeing in the hopes that it would calm Len down, but he’s not brave enough to talk again, not yet. 

“My dad – my dad was a real piece of work,” Len continues, and now Dean knows where this story is going. He’s heard it hundreds of times before. “I knew when I moved in with your momma that I would never be like him, not with two little boys who needed a man in their lives.”

Dean nods, carefully trying to inch closer to the cooler if only for another inch of space between him and the building storm behind the wheel. 

“He used to beat my ma, you know? Back in those days, things were a little different. People minded their own business and looked away, kept their noses out of their neighbor's shit. Boys didn’t cry about how mean their daddies were, either.” Len’s hand moves from Dean’s knee and back up his thigh, light and easy, no pressure. “I’d never hurt your momma like that.”

Dean could argue that Len hurts Mary in plenty of ways, even if he’s not physically hitting her. 

“When I was about your age,” Len starts, but then almost immediately stops. Dean knows what’s coming next but doesn’t prompt Len to continue. This is when Len gets a little choked up, when he gets the most emotional he ever does and opens his old wounds with blunt, infected nails. “When I was your age, I had to hit my dad in the head with a shovel. He wouldn’t stop. My ma – she couldn’t take it, and he was gonna kill her. Went to the shed, grabbed the shovel, and bopped him good on the back of the head. He went down like a field mouse.”

Dean’s thankful that this time, the story isn’t in quite such specific detail. 

“I wanted you to grow up with a dad that loved you,” Len’s voice softens in time with his hand tightening around Dean’s thigh, and the warm, shocky sparks Dean felt before are gone. There’s no mistaking this touch for one that could ever come from Cas. Even Dean’s body isn’t that stupid. “You know I love you, right?”

He feels sick, but Dean knows that’s his cue to speak up. “Yeah,” he lies. Dean doesn’t know what love is, but it probably isn’t what’s happening between him and his stepdad. 

“Sorry I’m not a hot-shot writer,” Len apologizes with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. “But I’d do anything for you, Dean. I’d cut my own arm off before I ever hurt you.” 

Dean ignores the pang of guilt and sorrow that accompanies that warped confession, pushing it to the side to be dealt with later. He doesn’t like feeling sorry for Len, hates the nagging little bug that makes Dean want to turn and comfort him and apologize. Len doesn’t deserve that, and Dean isn’t so far cowed yet that he’s going to willingly hand himself over. 

When they get to a stop light, Len sighs and leans back into his seat. Dean sits up a little straighter, uncomfortable and awkward against the cooler where it presses unforgivably into his side. It’s early afternoon on a Sunday, so it’s just them at the light with no one pulled up beside them. Low traffic in small town South Dakota can be a blessing or a curse.

With the way Len is rubbing Dean’s thigh, tightening and softening his grip in a rhythm almost like a massage, Dean thinks right now it’s closer to a curse. 

“I know we might not have it as good as your friend there, but you’ll never know what it’s like to have a father you’re afraid of,” Len says with a heavy breath, his other hand gripping the wheel. “You don’t have to grow up like I did.”

“Thanks.” Dean hopes his voice sounds genuine, but he can’t tell. He’s too distracted by the large hand suddenly cupping his groin and keeping up the rhythm there. He wants Len to stop, but saying so doesn’t help even when Len’s in a good mood. 

Dean brought this on himself by mentioning fathers. It’s his fault. 

He looks up at Len, but Len’s looking forward with steady eyes almost as if he’s rubbing Dean as an afterthought, watching the red light where it hangs above them. 

It’s difficult to imagine Len as a young man once, or even as a little boy. It’s hard to see past the gray in his hair and the years on his face, or what he might have been like thirty years ago when he had to hit his own father with a shovel. 

But Len’s features are soft, rounded, no sharp villainous lines or hard edges to the shape of his face. He’s not like the hideous creatures pictured in movies with nefarious motives and a long line of victims behind them. Len’s just a decent looking guy, good enough to catch Mary’s eye and charm his way into their home. He buys her flowers and goes to their parent-teacher conferences. He kissed Dean’s bruises before he ever kissed Dean’s lips.

As the feeling in Dean’s groin builds, he’s tempted to close his eyes and pretend the person touching him is Cas. It would be something he’s never allowed himself to do before, and though he’s scared of letting his brain fall into the ruse with such a fantasy, it would certainly make this a lot easier. Bright blue eyes instead of hazel ones, skin that blushes to mirror his, those lips…

The light flashes green and they’re off again. Len’s hand is gone and back on the steering wheel, leaving Dean embarrassingly hard in his jeans and disgusted, repulsed by how easily his body obeys Len’s simple commands. 

Better than Len finishing the job though, Dean remembers. There have been plenty of times when Len followed through and had Dean spilling into his pants without any way to clean himself up, stuck with the sticky mess and the smell of how easily he’s overcome. 

At least this way Dean can go home to the privacy of his own room and cool down before it gets that far, or he can come on his own terms. 

They stop at the gas station so Len can grab a six pack and a two-liter of Coke, presumably for him and Mary to mix their harder liquor with, before turning back onto the main highway and heading home. Len doesn’t drop his hand back down, doesn’t try to get Dean off before they park in the driveway a few minutes later. 

Dean’s not sure whether it’s a gift of mercy or if Len thinks he’s punishing Dean by not finishing the job. He doesn’t ask. 

Their duplex feels so small in comparison to Alfie’s, like returning to a fishbowl after swimming in the ocean, but it also puts him at peace to be back in familiar territory where he knows the rules and the protocol. He knows to kiss Mary on the cheek before going to his room, and knows that by the time the sun sets both parents will be plastered and possibly passed out in front of the television. 

“Sam’s back,” Len says as he opens the door into the front stairwell. “And you forgot to do the dishes.”

Len doesn’t seem to upset about either of those things, but Dean’s excited to see Sammy home again in what feels like a week. 

Upstairs, Mary is curled up on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand and some Lifetime movie playing on the screen. The apartment is a mess, but that’s not necessarily a surprise. Dean does the majority of the cleaning and without him, no one bothers to pick up after themselves. Sammy’s at the dining table just long enough to spot Dean and Len coming in through the door, then gathers his books and papers up into his arms and storms down the hall into his bedroom. It hurts, but Dean knows the cold shoulder isn’t for him. It’s for Len, who teases Sam mercilessly and treats him like an unwanted burden.

Sam can only be called a girl so many times before he loses his patience, and it’s better for all of them if those two just aren’t in the same room together. Doesn’t stop Len from accusing Sam of being on his period, though, from calling him a prickly princess. 

All Len has to do is laugh when he says it and Mary won’t tell him to stop. Dean would do it if he wasn’t such a wimp, wasn’t so scared of the consequences. 

Dean starts toward the couch to kiss his mother, but stops himself before he gets too close. He’s still a little hard in his jeans, still feeling sick and bowled over in a way that would only get worse if he pressed his lips to his mother’s cheek. 

She’s too engrossed in whatever she’s watching, anyway. Mary doesn’t turn to greet them after they’ve come in through the door, doesn’t acknowledge their presence. Len seems perfectly content to keep walking down the hallway to their bedroom without greeting her, too. Maybe they got in a fight. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he slinks silently into his room to find Sam in there, curled up on Dean’s bare mattress with a thick book and a scowl. 

Dean closes the door and drops his backpack, rolling his shoulders to alleviate the pain he feels there. “Hey Sammy.”

“Hey Dean,” Sam says, quiet and reserved without looking up from his book. “Where were you?”

The question strikes Dean as odd at first, mostly because he can’t recall ever having heard his brother ask it before. Dean’s always there, always around. Sam’s the one who’s gone all the time. 

“I went to a friend’s house, stayed the night,” Dean explains as he sits down on the mattress beside Sam, peering over his shoulder to see what he’s reading. Something about poor people with French names, he thinks – school assigned reading that Dean must have skipped. 

Sammy looks up from his book then, peering at him through the thick fringe of his too-long bangs. “I didn’t know you had friends.”

Dean shrugs, not taking offense. He knows what Sam means. “Just the one.”

“Mom and Leonard were fighting,” Sam says, angry, and Dean feels guilty for being elsewhere. Sam has more difficulties with the fighting here than Dean does, has nightmares about it that end with him crawling into Dean’s room when he’s scared and nauseous from the noise. “Leonard was in a bad mood all night. Mom apparently wanted him to get over it.”

Sam wouldn’t understand why even if Dean tried to explain it, but another layer of guilt sprouts with that knowledge as well. Dean’s got a pretty good guess for why Len was so upset, for why they’re fighting and making their humble home so much more miserable than it has to be. 

“Sorry,” Dean says. He wishes he could things better for the both of them. 

They sit in comfortable silence together for a bit, Sam reading from his oversized book to fill his oversized brain as Dean stares up at the ceiling, sorting through his thoughts. He should probably go out there and do the dishes, maybe get the rest of the cleaning done since the apartment looks pretty gross, but he feels safe here in the comfort of his bedroom. 

It’s not much, but it’s better than going out into the living room where anything could happen. Mary fighting leads to Mary drinking leads to unpredictable penalties for those who dare to intervene. Dean’s heard one sob story today already, and he doesn’t think he can stand to listen to Mary’s as well. He doesn’t want to hear about John tonight, about the fire. 

Sam is usually more talkative than this, but he tends to close up the drunker their parents get. Dean didn’t get a good look at their mom on the way in, but he’s guessing she’s pretty sloshed if Sam’s holding his tongue for this long. Normally Sam’s the one trying to get Dean to open up when they’re hiding together behind closed doors. 

“Hey, Sam?” Dean asks, leaning over to nudge his brother and get his attention. “Have you, uh…ever liked anyone?”

Once the words have left Dean’s mouth, he realizes how dumb the question is. Sammy’s not even twelve yet, and just because he reads at a high school level doesn’t mean he knows anything about high school problems. Romance and relationships are probably pretty low on his list of things to worry about. 

Sam does give him a strange look, deep and disbelieving as though he’s not sure he even heard Dean correctly. “Who do you like?” he asks, seeing right through the question. “Your friend?”

“My friend’s brother,” Dean says, clarifying. No point in lying or pretending like he’s asking for a vague, unnamed friend of a friend. They’ve never talked about liking other people before but Sam doesn’t seem too distracted by the fact that Dean just admitted to liking guys. 

“That’s tough. I’m sorry,” Sam says with a frown, and now Dean’s confused. Does Sam know about more than he lets on? Does he – does he know about Len?

“Why?” Dean asks with a trace of panic that he tries to cover with bravado. It doesn’t work. 

An eyebrow quirks up in response. “Doesn’t seem like it would work, I guess. If you date the brother, what does that mean for you and your friend? If he’s really the only one you got, sounds like a big risk to take putting him out like that. Something goes wrong between you and the guy or you and your friend, the brothers are gonna have each other’s backs and then you’re out. Just doesn’t sound like a fun position to be in.”

It’s not like Dean’s spent a lot of time considering the possibility of actually dating Cas, but having it spelled out for him like that does help put the situation in perspective. 

He’s only met Cas once, and already he’s taking over Dean’s mind and pushing Alfie out of the picture. Len too, not that Dean is complaining about that one. He’s forgetting about the reasons why it would never work even if it were a option in the first place. Len would never allow such a thing, and Alfie would end up an awkward third wheel dancing like a marionette between brother and friend. That’s not something Dean’s interested in putting his friend through.

Or himself, considering what Len’s reaction would be. 

“Guess I didn’t think about that,” Dean admits, sinking lower into his bed. Sam knows a hell of a lot more than Dean when it comes to relationships after all. 

Slowly, Sam drops the book to the floor and rolls over onto his side, curling his legs up against Dean’s side. It’s strangely reassuring, the position they’re in. They used to lay like this a lot when they were smaller. “Did he ask you out?”

Dean has to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing. “No, not even close. I, uh…I don’t even know if he notices me like that, to be honest. I just. I look at him and everything feels different. I feel different.”

An understatement, really. Dean’s still struggling with the pull in his groin that leaves him wanting more but unwilling to do anything about it, wrestling with the contrast between wanting to get off but needing to feel whole, in control of himself. Everything Dean thought he hated, he’s suddenly curious about now and wanting to explore.

Kissing. Touching. Wide blue eyes. 

But he can’t explain what that means to his little brother. Sam doesn’t know about the kisses and the touches Dean gets but doesn’t want, and it’s damn well going to stay that way. 

“Hmm.” Sam doesn’t ask what he means, thank God. Dean needs to be more careful with the words he lets slip from his mouth. “Well that’s something.”

“What?” Dean probes, eager for advice, for a sounding board. “What is?”

“Maybe he’s special, I don’t know. I’ve never seen you get all worked up over someone. Just promise me you’ll be careful though, okay?” Sam’s voice has dropped to a dull whisper as he clutches at his knees, holding them tight against his chest. It hurts how small Sam looks right now, how fragile. “Don’t – nevermind, just take it easy. Whatever happens, happens.”

Ever the optimist, Sam is. Always perched in that crow’s nest searching for the bright horizon. 

He’s got a point, though. Dean might not want to hear it, but he knows it’s the truth. 

There’s no light at the end of the tunnel for them, no grand romance to sweep them off their feet and carry them into a world of bliss and wonder. He’s never allowed himself to think that far ahead because goals are just smaller, lesser versions of dreams and dreams are dangerous things to have. 

Dean’s learned how to take things as they come, how to begrudgingly accept the things he cannot change and the wisdom to know better than to try. He clings to the hope that one day Len’s affections will be over and Mary will sober up, but those are castles in the sky at best and he knows it. This thing with Cas – whatever it is – feels too real and exciting to be something he can keep distantly in perspective. 

But that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, from clutching his pillow close and burying his face in the fabric once Sam is back in his own room for the night. It doesn’t stop him from dreaming about saying yes, about being wholly and unquestionably excited to seek out those blue eyes in the crowd tomorrow at school. 

Hopefully Len doesn’t come in tonight and catch him smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I've had a horrible case of writer's block that I'm finally starting to get over. Fingers crossed it leaves for good!

“Dean?” he hears, his name rippled and warped in a soft echo. It lugs him up from a dreamless sleep and thrusts him into consciousness, opens his drowsy eyes to the blackness of his room.

Hands are on his shoulder, shaking him, grip tight and unrelenting. The motion is followed by the sweaty warmth of a body curling into bed beside him, and though Dean knows the body is far too small and scrawny to be Len’s, his body reacts without permission and jolts him violently away. He rolls off the side of the mattress, muscles uncoiling as he scrambles against the carpet until his back is firmly against the wall.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean blurts as he mops at his face, trying to regain control of his runaway heart. It’s beating so fast that it hurts, so hard that he can hear every sweeping pulse as it rings through his ears.

Sam whines, reaching for him through the dark to where Dean is molded in the corner. The guilt riding through him from his frightened reaction to Sam’s presence ebbs into paranoia ( _he’ll know, he’ll know it’s ‘cause of Len_ ) but his brother just keeps on coming, following Dean onto the floor and wrapping desperate arms around his middle.

“Please let me sleep with you,” Sam begs, settling against Dean with his bony legs tucked snugly beneath him. “I won’t steal the blanket. I’ll stay on my side of the bed.”

Dean tries to speak but his tongue betrays him, lungs emitting some kind of breathy pant at the touch. Sam doesn’t seem to notice the way Dean goes frigid under the ambush like a rabbit snared, he only curls in closer and tighter until it damn near feels like they’re snuggling.

“Please,” Sam says again, as though the word only works if it’s been repeated and demanded, impatient. “Please, Dean.”

“Nightmare?” Dean finally manages, taking a deep breath and wiping at his brow with the back of his trembling hand. The stiff ache holding his body hostage doesn’t leave with the knowledge that the person holding him is Sam, that it’s just his little brother and for the moment, they’re both relatively safe.

“I’m scared. I – I can’t sleep, I can’t be alone right now,” is the response Dean gets, but it’s a confirmation all the same. Sam is panicked, rattling harder than Dean is, frantic for company to make it through the night. 

Another deep breath helps settle Dean’s nerves and he’s able to take back control of his body, to talk his heart down from the ledge it perched on after being touched so rough and fervently.

He nods, patting Sam awkwardly on the back. Dean’s never been that great at comforting people but he wishes he could do that for his little brother; he wants to be able to hold him without being so sick from the contact. There’s only so much he can do, and letting Sam share his bed is one of them.

If only he could crack himself apart, open up to the only other person in the world who knows what they’ve been through and what they’ve seen. He likes to think Sam would understand, would comfort him and take away the blame resting heavy on Dean’s heart.

But Sam’s a mess. There’s a dampness on Dean’s chest where his brother’s face is pressed and he can feel the wet hiccups as they stumble out of his brother’s throat. Dean would take those nightmares from Sam if he could; he’d have them every night if it meant Sam could sleep and have those hours of respite. It’s not fair when reality is so twisted and bent around their mother’s pain and ignorance.

As Dean blinks away the last of the sleep clouding his eyes, he glances at the alarm clock to confirm that it’s still in the middle of the night. He remembers with sudden, agonizing clarity that Len could come up into his room any moment, could see them both lying in bed together and punish them for it.

It’s one thing for Dean to be caught in Len’s pitiless crosshairs, and another thing entirely for Sam to be dragged into that darker, bloodier world where Dean is forced to reside.

Dean looks down at his brother, who’s finally calming and relaxing with his eyes closed as he breathes steadily through parted lips. There’s a sharper ache deeper within that reminds Dean he’s got to do this: it’s worth hurting Sam a little to keep him from hurting so much more.

“Stop crying,” he says first, even though Sam’s tears have mostly dried up and his hiccups have ceased. “Go back to bed.”

Sam’s refusal is immediate, shaking his head and clinging to Dean’s middle even harder, clutch unbreakable. “No.”

The blunt nails digging into Dean’s skin provokes a second wave of panic. It starts as a slow trickle, building in rolling swells that leave him breathless and terrified. “Suck it up,” Dean says, trying to push Sam’s arms away at the same time he kicks at his feet. “Stop being a baby and get out of my room.”

It feels like such an unforgivable crime to use Len’s words against his brother, to repeat the old intonations Len force-fed them in childhood. _Suck it up. Be a man. Get over it_.

Sam is still just a kid, not yet twelve.

Dean frees himself from his brother’s grip, scuttling backward along the wall until there’s enough distance for him to close his eyes and catch a few much-needed breaths.

“You’re an asshole,” he hears, unwilling to look up and see the damage done. The word sounds too large for Sam’s young vocabulary, too heated, but his brother’s already storming off toward the door before Dean can tell him to watch his mouth.

Sam knocks the only framed picture sitting on Dean’s dresser to the floor, then struggles through another round of hitched sobs as the tears flood back to him in a rush. “Hate you,” he cries on his way out, closing the door softly behind him despite the brutal clip of his voice.

The relief Dean feels is instant but sickening, a betrayal to the most primitive part of him that needs to keep Sammy close and tell him he’s loved. The crawl back into his bed feels more like a serpent’s slither for how deceitful he feels, how false-hearted.

He hides under the thin shelter of his blanket, trying not think about how the greater good hurts a hell of a lot more than it ought to.

҉     ҉     ҉ 

The morning passes slow and uneventfully after Dean rolls out of bed to the sound of his alarm and knocks on Sam’s door to wake him. Sam drags himself out of bed as well and neither of them mention his episode during the night. Dean pours them each a bowl of cereal only to find that the milk is gone and there’s nothing else to eat, so they crunch on the dry corn flakes while they finish getting ready. The bread in the cupboard is a bit stale, but Dean’s able to make a passable lunch for his brother to take to school anyway.

There’s not enough for Dean to make something for himself, not unless he wants to pack a bag of dry cereal to snack on until they get back home, but that would mean no breakfast for either of them tomorrow and he can’t send Sam to school on an empty stomach. It’s not a big deal, he thinks, because it’s not like he hasn’t gone without lunch before and he could use the hour to get some homework done instead.

Mom’s still sleeping when they leave so they decide not to wake her, knowing it’s better for everyone if she gets enough sleep. Sam makes a flippant remark about wanting a mother who gets up and makes breakfast, so Dean reminds him for the umpteenth time that they’re lucky they have a mother at all and aren’t orphaned in the foster care system. It’s a shame Sammy can’t see beyond what they don’t have because Dean knows with awful certainty that things could always be worse.

His little brother might not remember what life was like before the fire, but Dean does. He knows they’ve got the best, most beautiful mother hidden somewhere beneath the wine and sorrow. There are warm apple pies in that woman, frilly apron straps and golden curls. There are smiles and bedtime stories and kept promises.

She just misses John. Dean does too.

They wait for the bus on the curb like usual, neither saying anything to the other. Sam doesn’t like to admit in the daylight that he’s capable of tears or weakness, and Dean doesn’t like bringing it up any more than Sam does. His little brother usually tucks tail and runs after episodes like that, so Dean doubts he’ll see Sam again for a few days until Mom or Len forces him to come back home.

Which means Dean will be alone with both of them. Again.

He wants to hate his brother for it, but after spending the night at Alfie’s, Dean knows he’d be doing the same thing if he could.

It’s with Alfie and the Edlund family in mind that Dean steps up into the bus and rides to school in silence, eyes half-lidded and lazy as he stares out the window at nothing. He lets himself daydream about what it might be like to live with them, to be able to escape for a few days a week and just slowly insert himself into their home, blending in with the furniture.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall in Cas’ bedroom. To think he wasted nearly two years of time he could have spent watching Cas walk the halls of their school, eating lunch, playing sports – anything, really. Dean’s not picky. Just thinking about Cas at all makes Dean’s skin burn deeply with excitement. He hardly notices the passing of time with Alfie’s brother on his mind and he still hasn’t decided if that makes him a creep or not.

He’d ask Alfie, but there’s probably some kind of friendship rule that prohibits that sort of thing, and Dean’s pretty sure regular kids don’t ask weird stuff like: Hey, is it normal to fantasize about your best friend’s brother? Or perhaps: Can I live with you to avoid being touched by my mom’s boyfriend?

It wouldn’t make for polite, casual conversation, and that’s really the only kind of dialogue Dean knows how to have.

Besides, asking to stay at Alfie’s just the once had been hard enough.

Dean allows his thoughts to be consumed by Cas through the first half of the school day, his mind wandering from the soft sweatpants Cas wore to the fragile-looking chain around his neck. Dean knows better than to let his thoughts dive too deeply; he’s not ready to think about what sex would be like with him, because that would require all kinds of comparisons Dean doesn’t want to make and he refuses to muddy his pleasant fantasies by weaving in images of Len.

Pre-Calc is the last class before lunch, and though it’s his favorite class Dean can’t bring himself to focus on the whiteboard or concentrate on the equations scribbled across it in blue and green marker. It’s more of a refresher course since Dean’s only a sophomore and he can’t graduate without three years of mathematics on his transcript, so he doesn’t bother forcing himself to try. He hasn’t seen Cas yet today in the halls and that is apparently far more concerning to him than whether or not the given function on the board is invertible.

He doesn’t even notice Alfie trying to get his attention from the seat beside him.

“Hey,” Alfie says, nudging Dean’s elbow with his own. “Ground control to Major Tom.”

Dean startles from his trance to discover that the class has emptied, only a few students lingering behind to speak with the teacher. He scrambles for a moment to collect his books and tuck away a few loose pieces of paper, steadfastly ignoring the confused smile on Alfie’s face.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you space out in math class before,” Alfie says, waiting for Dean to finish gathering his things. “You okay?”

“Yeah, peachy.” Dean pushes in his chair and follows Alfie out into the hall. They both pretend like it wasn’t a complete lie.

“What are you doin’ for lunch today?” Alfie asks, and it’s not a question Dean’s used to hearing. Sure, they’ve eaten lunch together a few times when they had mutual homework assignments to complete, but they’ve had an unspoken agreement of sorts to go their separate ways when the lunch bell rings.

It’s not a lot of fun to watch everyone else eat while Dean just sits there with empty hands and a rumbling stomach.

“Homework,” Dean answers by default, clutching the books tighter to his chest. “I’ll see you in sixth period?”

Alfie considers that for a moment, biting his lip and staring at Dean in contemplation. It feels a little unnatural to be under his friend’s scrutiny like this, makes his skin itchy and his guts churn with every passing second Alfie doesn’t answer.

And when he finally does, only moments after they make it to Dean’s locker, he says, “You should eat with us today.”

Dean pauses, but only because his brain short-circuits and his heart flat-lines. “Who do you eat with?”

It’s the easiest question to ask, because _why are you asking me_ and _don’t you know I can’t afford food_ seem more confrontational than what he’s going for. It’s the least of the accusations resting on his tongue, the only thing Dean can say without giving himself completely away.

Alfie just keeps on with that grin of his, oblivious to Dean’s rising nausea. “Today it’s just gonna be me and Cas. Hannah might eat with us too.”

Dean feels sickeningly transparent, and at first he doesn’t realize that he’s starting to shake until Alfie says, “Uh, Dean?”

He shoves the books into his locker in a jumbled mess, pulling out his Spanish folder and nearly spilling the contents out all over the hallway floor. Alfie remains utterly silent, saying nothing as Dean forces his locker to close and walks off, leaving him behind.

Dean can’t stop how horrified he feels with himself or how scared he is about the prospect of sitting with them during lunch. He’s pretty good at playing possum when the time calls for it, especially under pressure or when he doesn’t know what else to do, but he can’t exactly stand unmoving in the middle of a crowded hallway.

Running seemed to be the only option, but now that he’s actually gone Dean can see how stupid that idea is. He’ll have to see Alfie in sixth period, and what will he do then? Ignore him? Just let their years of easy, uncomplicated friendship be broken by Alfie inviting him to lunch?

Dean finds himself caged in a bathroom stall, still shaking as Alfie’s words wrap persistently around his throat. He’s a little dizzy, almost lightheaded, and unable to get enough air to calm himself down. There’s a handful of other guys at the row of sinks, washing their hands and making flippant jokes to laugh at, and it only makes Dean feel worse. He wishes he could be as free as they are.

It’s not just the idea of eating lunch with Alfie. It’s not just the sense of embarrassment or excitement that accompanies his every thought of Cas and what being around Cas could be like. It’s the threat of exposure that leaves Dean feeling so raw, so weak. If he sits with them without food, they’ll know.

The guys in the bathroom finish up and walk out, leaving Dean alone with the ricochets of his shallow breaths dancing off the tile walls. Being completely by himself helps, and the distance brings his state of mind to calmer place. He breathes slower and deeper, leaning against the stall and raking a hand through his hair until the vertigo subsides.

He doesn’t know why he cares so much all of a sudden. It’s like Dean’s perpetual state of poverty and his limited wardrobe don’t already give him away. He feels like he walks around with a spotlight over his head half the time, especially when he hears the whispers or feels the weighted stares of his classmates.

All these crazy, roiling emotions that Dean has no idea what to do with are Cas’ fault, making him do things like volley off and hole up in the bathroom.

Those blue eyes have unmoored him, and now Dean’s left out to drift.

Those blue eyes also happen to be down in the cafeteria eating lunch with Alfie and Hannah, and if Dean’s lucky he might be able to go save face and join them without too much fuss. He can’t realistically end things with Alfie, not when he’s the only friend Dean’s ever had and the only person who lets him do weird things like run off and hide without explanation and not penalize him for it.

Dean’s nervous though, still humiliated by his lack of food and that he doesn’t even have enough loose change for the vending machine, but it’s been a long time since he’s been invited to sit with anyone and it would be lie to say Dean wasn’t hoping to cross paths with Cas today. He’d been hoping for _more_ than that.

Is this what love is like? Is this what happens to everyone else?

Dean finally leaves the stall, setting his folder on the counter in front of the mirror. He stares at himself for a moment, feeling a bit filthy and unkempt, wondering if Cas will notice that Dean’s wearing the same ratty sweater he wore when he stayed at their house. He tries not to think about that as he splashes cool water on his face and wets his hair down, smoothing it into something cleaner rather than the mess of spikes it usually is.

He’s about as good as he’s going to get. A burnished penny.

Whatever sudden pulse of madness took him over has retreated now, leaving Dean with the same sense of white-knuckled determination he uses to power through the rest of his life. He can do this, or at least he can try.

Dean leaves the bathroom with his Spanish folder tucked under his arm, making his way through the crowd until he reaches the stairs and heads down.

The cafeteria hums with conversation and laughter, punctuated by the scrape of utensils on plates and the hiss of soda cans being opened. It smells delicious and nauseating all at once, like food and sweat and too much perfume. He focuses on the latter to keep from salivating. It’s so pungent he can taste the fragrant top notes on his tongue.

Mercifully, Dean sees Alfie first. He’s sitting at one of the tables against the wall, a long-suffering look on his face. He’s irritated, almost angry, eyes narrow and critical. Across from him, Cas pokes tiredly at his food with a plastic spork.

They’re talking, but Dean can’t tell what about. He gets the sense they shouldn’t be interrupted, and he doesn’t want to intrude on their family business. It’s possible Alfie is complaining about what a skittish, annoying friend Dean is after what just happened, and his heart sinks.

He considers falling back on Plan A, hiding in the library to get some work done so he doesn’t force himself on his friend, but then Cas looks up and locks eyes with Dean and he’s frozen in place, swallowing thickly to overcome the sudden dryness in his mouth.

Cas smiles beautifully with his eyes, and Dean wonders how he does that.

Alfie stops mid-sentence to follow his brother’s gaze, mouth parting slightly in disbelief. It’s too late to turn around now, but that’s okay. He’d somehow forgotten how completely mesmeric Cas could be.

After a couple beats of stunned silence, Cas motions for Dean to come closer, to join them. It takes a moment for Dean’s brain to send the correct signals to his feet, but then he’s moving forward to the table where his friend is still kind of gaping.

“Hi,” Cas says, lips curling up in a gentle grin as Dean takes a seat.

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so instead his body flushes and heats his cheeks. The burn spreads lower, creeping down the length of his neck.

Alfie clears his throat and drops his hands to the table. “Hey man,” he says, sounding very much surprised. “You gonna eat with us?”

No snide remarks. No rubbing Dean’s cowardice in his face.

“Yeah,” he says, setting his folder on the table in front of him. He can’t help but notice the irony that Cas is the only one with food.

“Awesome.” Alfie sounds like he genuinely means it as he shifts his weight on the squeaky stool, lightly tapping his fingers. The sound of Alfie’s tapping is strangely comforting in the midst of so much lively racket in the crowded cafeteria.

Fortunately, Cas looks like he might be turning red as well, sparing Dean from the shame of being the only one. He can’t be sure of the reason behind the roses blooming over Cas’ cheeks, but he lets himself imagine that it’s because Dean is here, because of how close they are. Their knees could be touching under the table if one of them shifted a mere couple of inches. .

“So,” Cas starts, still prodding at his food with the sharp points of his spork, “how’s it going?”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He’s not even sure what’s funny, he just knows that the nervous flutter in his chest is light and welcome. The fear Dean felt at the thought of sitting with them seems silly now in the warmth of Cas’ presence.

“Good, I guess,” Dean says for lack of a better response. He’s better than before when he was hiding in the bathroom so it’s not technically a lie.

“You don’t normally eat in the cafeteria, do you?” Cas takes a bite of a french fry, then sips slowly on his Coke.

The sight of it makes Dean’s mouth water, all the salt and greasy goodness he wishes he could have. Sometimes he gets to indulge across the street at McDonald’s when he scrapes together enough change, but it’s been a while since he’s had enough to go there. There’s still the slightest film of sugar coating Dean’s tongue from the cornflakes he ate this morning, so he relies on that to ignore the urge to beg.

“Nah,” Dean admits. He’s become pretty good at sounding lighthearted about it. “I like to get my homework done before the school day ends so I don’t have to take it home.”

It’s probably the most Dean has ever said to someone here who wasn’t Alfie or a teacher.

Cas nods. “That’s smart. Homework sucks.”

Dean disagrees, but he doesn’t say as much. It’s not that he actually enjoys the busy work teachers assign on an endless cycle, he just prefers to have something distracting and engrossing to keep him from thinking about other things, to give him the excuse he needs to curl inward and shut the rest of the world out.

When Dean doesn’t reply, Cas has no problem filling in the silence. “You do anything after school? Clubs or sports or something?”

Now Dean wants to laugh for another reason entirely. His fingers pluck at the corner of his folder as he shakes his head, bending the smooth edges until they’re a little softer.

“Really?” Cas pushes, almost as he believes Dean is capable of joining a club, of normal social interaction. “There’s some kind of math club that meets once a week here. Alfie was talking about it last night. Seems like something you might enjoy.”

In another universe, maybe. In a world where Len didn’t exist and Dean wasn’t such an outstanding screw up.

He’d almost forgotten that Alfie was right beside him; his friend is silent but amused, observing their conversation more than he’s trying to be a part of it. Dean glances at him briefly to gauge his mood, but Alfie’s eyes are trained on his brother. A subtle look of warning.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean lies smoothly in an attempt to break the tension. It’s better than explaining how his skin goes cold and clammy at the thought, how his heart beats so rapidly that it hurts when he’s in clusters of people like this. When people look at him too long or too often.

He needs to be home for his mother, anyway. For her and Sammy both.

“What about sports?” Cas keeps the conversation alive, undeterred by Dean’s reluctance and Alfie’s stony presence.

Dean instinctually clutches at his wrist, pulling it closer to his chest in an attempt to protect it, to cradle it. 

“No,” Dean says, leaving it at that. Maybe Cas won’t notice the lump of scar tissue raised inelegantly over the bone at the base of his thumb.

Cas thankfully doesn’t see what Dean is feebly trying to hide, doesn’t even notice the way he shrinks back like thick loops have constricted around him. “Huh. You and Alfie used to play soccer, right?”

“Yeah.”

Oblivious or uncaring, Cas continues. “You should play with us sometime. The gym’s open after school and we’ve got a fun group together. I, um…I think you’d like it.”

Though Cas seems nervous at the suggestion – his ears tinging pink to match the rest of him – Dean can’t help but feel a little resentful of him and the question.

Alfie finally twitches into motion, clearing his throat and shaking his head as he keeps his narrowed eyes on his older brother. The expression is obvious: a reprimand. 

But for what, Dean is left to guess.

Despite the unspoken threat lingering on Alfie’s face, or maybe because of it, Cas turns back to Dean with gentled eyes and waits patiently for a response.

Dean could lie again. He could agree to meet up with them after school to keep from hurting Cas’ feelings and then simply not show up when the time comes. He could make excuses until they all forget Dean’s false, lukewarm promise.

“Dean doesn’t play anymore,” Alfie offers when Dean is unable answer, and though normally that kind of governing gesture leaves Dean feeling crushed beneath its corpulent weight, he’s oddly thankful for it.

This is why Dean avoids conversation, why he dodges small-talk as often as possible. It’s too much effort to let people in the gate without opening the front door. To keep them close but not let them in.

“Sorry,” Dean adds. He tries to ignore the pain and embarrassment on Cas’ face. “Thanks, but, uh…no thanks.”

Cas doesn’t say anything else, resorting to playing with his food more than eating it as he scrapes it around the plate at a snail’s pace. He looks disinterestedly over Dean’s shoulder at the rest of the cafeteria. It’s horribly awkward and Dean finds himself wanting to crawl under the floorboards to hide with the worms and beetles.

The best he can do for himself right now is lower his head to stare hopelessly at the floor, but it feels worse than running had, so much more spineless.

An eternity passes in a matter of seconds as time stretches into cords of taffy, slowing and thickening in the air around them. Dean’s acutely aware that he’s entirely to blame for the halted conversation and the way both he and Cas seem unable to loosen their tongues.

Alfie, ever merciful, nicks through the silence. “Cas sucks at math.”

“Hey,” Cas blurts, clearly offended. He throws a french fry at his brother’s face. Alfie flusters as he bats it away.

“It’s true. He’s in Mr. Buckley’s too, but in first period. Mom says it’s ruining his grade point average.”

“Shut up.”

Though Dean’s pretty sure they’re fighting, he admires the ease the brothers have with each other, the familiarity. He wonders if he and Sam could have had that if things had been different.

“You don’t help him?” Dean asks. The Edlund family seems so close, so helpful. Hard to imagine they’d leave a member of the family behind.

Alfie laughs boldly, dragging his hands over his sleeves to bunch them up around his elbows. “I’ve tried, but he doesn’t listen to me. He just calls me an ass and flicks my ear.”

“Lies,” Cas defends. Dean looks up to watch Cas smirk as he throws another french fry at Alfie’s face. Alfie catches this one and pops it in his mouth, then reaches over to steal Cas’ drink and gulps half of it down before Cas threatens to stab him with his flimsy utensil.

Alfie relents, sliding the drink back over to his brother as a peace offering, declaring a truce between them. “I bet if he had a different tutor, he’d do a lot better.”

If Cas weren’t already so red, Dean would think he’d blushed again at the suggestion. The rosy petals under his skin deepen in color, and Dean can see his heart rate quicken by the faster rhythm pulsing in the cords of his neck.

It’s wild, like Dean’s. Matches the staccato beat dancing in his veins.

The bait is there, dangling, waiting for Dean to catch sight of it and hone in. Like every ignorant fish before him, Dean ignores the silvery glint of barbed metal and bites the hook.

“I can tutor you,” he offers. He doesn’t have to look back up to know they’re both staring at him, relentless.

“Yeah?” Whatever nervousness had paralyzed Cas’ features melts away in an instant. Even the tenor of his voice is stronger, more excited than it had been. Dean chances a look up and sinks into the earnest pools of indigo, his hands clamping involuntarily along the edge of the notebook. He can hear the muffled sound of paper crumpling beneath his palm.

“Yeah.”

“Great!” Alfie chimes in, knocking a victorious beat onto the table with his knuckles. “Cas needs help, like, _immediately_. You should come over again this weekend. I’ve got a ruler you can smack him with when he gets mouthy.”

Dean chokes on the air. “Mouthy?”

“Unless you’re into that kind of thing.” Alfie waggles his eyebrows, carefree and happy.

This side of Alfie is foreign to him, bizarre and unrecognizable. Dean had always relied on the unobtrusiveness of their friendship, the calm pliability of it. They’ve worked on projects together, shared classes and notes, but never quite let go of the safety bars around each other. For as much as Dean was hiding from Alfie, it’s possible his friend was doing the same.

He wants to joke back and smile, but the lively, teasing expression on Alfie’s face is a little much. It reminds him of Len, of the way his stepfather makes an endless thread of crude gags at Dean’s expense.

“I’ve gotta go,” Dean says, and he forces a smile on his face. He doesn’t want to offend or alarm them, he just needs a little space. Needs air.

He rises from the table and gives them a little wave, but Alfie stops him with, “Where ya goin’? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean assures them, and at least this time he’s making a strategic retreat rather than scurrying off into a crack in the wall. “But I really do have homework, so…”

Alfie doesn’t let the pause loiter long. “So I’ll go with you. I’ve gotta get some stuff done, too.” He’s up and out his chair between one second and the next, patting Cas on the shoulder.

Dean barely hears it, but Alfie leans low into Cas’ space and murmurs, “Happy now?”

He doesn’t hear Cas’ response, only sees the way he shrugs Alfie off and downs the rest of his soda. Dean’s smile thaws into something more candid when Cas meets his eyes for a final time and beams.

Maybe that means yes, even though Dean’s not sure what about.

They head to Alfie’s locker first, mainly because he claimed all his work was there and he needed to retrieve it before heading to the library, but the way Alfie fidgeted almost anxiously had Dean suspecting there were ulterior motives.

It makes Dean feel antsy, afraid. People can be intolerably unpredictable, can spin like tops on the face of a dime. Panic has become a familiar friend over the years and though he hates when that rush of adrenaline makes him vulnerable, there’s also a quiet comfort that accompanies it. He knows panic. He lives in it.

There’s none of that comforting weight draping over him now. There are too many conflicting emotions warring within the confine of his ribs. He’s never wanted Alfie to like him as much as he does now, never wanted to be included in someone’s life so profoundly. 

Selfishly, Dean wants more of the flutter he felt earlier. He wants the proverbial butterflies to dance freely in a swirl of color before life crushes their paper-thin wings beneath its shoe.

“He’s never had a boyfriend before,” Alife says, redirecting Dean’s attention.

It takes a second for Dean to catch up and realize what his friend is saying. “Cas?” He clarifies, though he already knows the answer.

“He’s shy,” Alfie adds, grabbing a textbook from his locker. “Being gay didn’t help that.”

Dean’s not sure he understands the relevance or where this topic sprouted from, but now the subject blooms luminous and unbridled in his curious mind. He’d never considered whether Cas had been in a relationship, never saddled himself with the image of Cas being with anyone else. It wouldn’t have been fair to his hard-won fantasies.

But now that reality has perforated that delicate dream, he realizes how easily Cas could be pursued by another. It’s unnatural how good looking the guy is, so stupidly cute with perfectly shaped hands and rounded lips. Dean knows better than to think he’s the only one who ever looked at Cas at way, who has closed their eyes to dream of his.

“Okay,” Dean says. He doesn’t know how else to respond.

“I just thought, uh, you should know,” Alfie pauses, pushing his sleeves back down to cover his wrists. “I thought maybe you could relate. And go easy on him.”

Yes, Dean supposes he can.

He’s never been in a relationship, not unless Len’s tenured affections can be painfully carved into that tally. The idea of being someone’s boyfriend, of being owned so publicly in that way never seemed like an auspicious title to carry.

Dreams are intangible assets that cannot be touched or measured, that hold no value outside of the dreamer’s reveries. For that reason Dean keeps them close, guards his imaginings carefully like fragile bones. But Alfie’s bringing this up, reminding him that he’s not as subtle or as deadpan as he thinks, asking him to handle his brother with care.

Dean never intended to hurt Cas’ feelings. He wouldn’t make fun of someone like that, wouldn’t laugh at Cas for being gay or shy or whatever. He’s almost offended that Alfie thinks he’s capable of that kind of cruelty. It’s as if Dean’s own confession in the twilight hours of Alfie’s bedroom had been for nothing.

“Sure,” he offers, hoping that settles Alfie’s protective instincts. 

҉     ҉     ҉

Mary leaves for Bingo night downtown. Sam is, as predicted, gone.

Bingo means she won’t be coming back home tonight either. Mary drinks at the hall with her buddies, and after a long night of losing with a purple dauber in her hand, she walks a block over to the cheap motel and crashes there instead of hailing a cab.

Dean’s seen the way she spirals after playing, the way the guilt of blowing all their spare cash in a single night creeps up and takes her over. It’s better that she sleeps it off before coming home and infecting the house with her inconsolable self-loathing, ink smeared on her fingertips and reeking of smoke.

But Bingo also means that Dean’s alone with Len tonight. It means the need for secrecy and the flimsy barriers are lifted.

The coffee table is covered in Dean’s homework and notebooks because Len likes to keep him close on nights like this. The dining room is a distance too far and his bedroom is agonizingly off-limits. Len sits low on the couch, legs wide with the remote balanced precariously on his right knee. He’s not watching the television, though. He’s watching Dean write a paper on Holden Caulfield and sipping modestly on a bottle of whiskey.

The pencil is worn down to a blunt, pathetic nub by the time the paper is half finished, the words blocky and ill-defined as a result. Dean stands to get the sharpener – somewhere in his backpack, or maybe he forgot it at school – but Len catches the waist of his hoodie between his fingers and stops him.

“Take it off.”

Dean pretends he didn’t hear that. “What?”

“Your fucking sweater,” Len growls. It sends a prickle of chills down Dean’s spine. “It’s like eighty fucking degrees in here. The fuck you wearing a sweater for?”

Dean’s English teacher once said that people who cuss are compensating for a poor vocabulary, that swear words are for those who can’t think of anything better to say. Dean thinks she was right.

“Sorry,” he says. It hurts that he actually is.

Forgetting the sharpener, Dean inelegantly pulls the hoodie over his head and drapes it over the back of the couch. It is, actually, quite warm. He’d been sweating under the fabric but too ashamed to remove the protective layer of clothing. He’s wearing John’s old Zeppelin t-shirt today, soft and baggy, and he prays that Len doesn’t instruct him to remove it too.

But Len’s focus is elsewhere. His eyes trail down over Dean’s jeans and Dean just stands there and takes it.

“You look like a punk,” Len adds.

Dean’s afraid to ask, but Len cranes his neck the way owls do to meet his eyes and waits for a response. “Um. Why?”

Len picks at Dean’s jeans, pulling the fabric away from Dean’s thigh. “Baggy shirt, baggy pants, baggy sweater. Tryin’ to look like a gangster? Don’t you have clothes that fit?”

No, he doesn’t. He’d say as much if he knew he wouldn’t be punished for it. His wardrobe is only composed of a handful of items and none of them fit the way they should. Sammy’s got nothing but hand-me-downs; even his shoes were once Dean’s and are falling apart.

In an effort not to provoke the beast, Dean says nothing.

“Got you something,” Len says, catching Dean off-guard. He was expecting a longer reprimand, or another casual spread of Len’s hand over his thigh.

Len reaches clumsily into his pocket and pulls out a small cellphone. It’s black and basic, an off-brand he’s seen at Walmart for around twenty bucks. Prepaid and discreet. Dean doesn’t make a move to reach for it, nor does he make a joke by asking what the special occasion is. He waits silently for instruction like a good boy.

“You’re sixteen now, spendin’ more time away from home,” Len starts, then takes a swig of his whiskey. “I think it’s time you had one.” He hands the phone over, keeping it nearly fully encompassed by his rough hand, forcing Dean to touch his fingers as he accepts his gift.

But Dean’s unable to pull away and end the transaction. Len quickly takes Dean’s hand in his, the phone still trapped between their palms. Len turns their hands over, eyes tracing the shape and lines of Dean’s skin. His thumb brushes over a cuticle, then another. Finally, as though they were lovers rather than a blemished statistic, Len kisses the back of Dean’s hand.

Then he lets go, and Dean retreats as far as he can without penalty. A single step.

“You can get ahold of me any time you need to.” Lens voice is softer now, lighter. It’s the voice he uses when he’s talking sweetly to Mary on the holidays.

“Thank you,” Dean finally manages to say. His own voice is gentled and appreciative, a mirrored tone. He’s learned how to parrot well.

He shoves the phone in his pocket.

Dean can’t actually remember what he was doing. He’d risen from the couch for a reason, to fetch something, but now his heart is wild and skipping in the worst of ways. He tries settling himself with a breath but fails, tries sitting back down to give his heart an easier time.

He thinks idly of the Indian tribe that measured their lives in heartbeats, how every beat of his heart can be used to deduct what’s left of his time here on Earth. It’s a little haunting to think of things in that way, but his heart gallops riotously so often that he wonders how much time he really has. He wonders if the grains of sand in his hourglass are spilling to the bottom faster than everyone else’s.

It would be a small mercy.

“That’s just for us.” Len says. Dean figured as much. “For when you’re gone. We can get in touch that way, instead of me havin’ to call people’s houses and shit. Don’t want you to miss me too much, either.”

Len winks, and Dean feels sick.

It’s one thing for their awful, dirty secret to happen at home. Bad things happens behind closed doors all the time, even Hollywood knows that. Villains and monsters are allowed to look normal for the public, can seem like genuinely nice people to their neighbors and friends. Dean’s adjusted his life to better fit into the mold Len has created for him, has lied and wept and lied some more to keep that illusion alive.

But what Len is suggesting – what he’s _asking_ for – is to lengthen Dean’s leash while tightening the collar.

He wants to call Dean when he’s gone. Wants to keep tabs on him. He’ll expect Dean to be calling him, too.

Homework forgotten, Dean pulls his knees up to his chest and leans into the couch. He stares blankly at the television, trying to bleed his mind of the repulsive knowledge that Len is taking their relationship to the next level.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY. I feel simply awful that it's taking me so long to get over this suffocating writer's block. I've been working on this chapter for weeks and right now I'm just glad to finally get it posted. Thank you guys so much for sending me encouraging messages and asking about the fic. None of my fics are abandoned, by the way. I am just trying to figure out how to get through this slump. 
> 
> This chapter is completely unbeta'd. There might be many mistakes. I'll go through it again when it's not midnight, but hopefully it's still readable. Also, I'm sorry if there's a big drop in quality from what I was writing before. I am very seriously struggling right now and my writing has taken a bit hit. 
> 
> Warnings: there's some homophobic language/slurs used in this chapter, and please please please be aware of the tags before reading. 
> 
> Thank you guys for putting up with me, still.

Cas’ pencil taps against the wood grain of the dining table in a steady rhythm, the rubber eraser padding softly in contrast to the sharp rap of the pointed graphite. Dean watches the mechanical pencil rock back and forth where it’s woven between Cas’ fingers, knowing more is happening there than further upstairs in the guy’s brain.

It’s fairly obvious Cas doesn’t need tutoring. He’s not advanced by any means, but he’s taking the same level math as Dean is and passing it easily. Dean’s not sure why he believed he’d been invited over for the simple task of helping Alfie’s brother with his homework.

Dean’s explaining the work anyway, taking Cas through the problems step by step while Cas pretends he’s learning new information. Sometimes one of them will lean in close, or their arms will brush and linger on the table, warm and subtle. It’s nice.

The best part is being close enough to smell Cas’ fading cologne, all sporty and spicy and mixed with sweat. It’s a familiar scent that Dean thinks he’s been close to before, maybe something fraternal shared between brothers. Whatever it is, Dean likes it.

And that damn necklace, too. He can see the fragile chain pressed against the smooth skin of Cas’ neck and it wouldn’t take much to pluck and pull it out from its hiding spot beneath Cas’ shirt. Dean’s dying to know what’s on the end of the chain, if anything. His curiosity gets the best of him, leading his hand to think without his brain and stretch outward to move Cas’ shirt and get a better look.

“Whoa,” Cas says. Dean snaps back into himself, jerking his hand away and darting his eyes in the opposite direction.

His hands are stained red and the spotlight is hot above him. Not much use in denying the obvious. “Sorry.”

Cas smiles. “It’s fine. Just, uh, wasn’t expecting that.” He sets the pencil down, rolling it across the table with his palm. “You can, you know.”

In the kitchen, Becky hums an upbeat tune as dinner sizzles in the pan, sprinkling pinches of seasoning into the mix. It smells wonderful and completely unexpected, like nothing he’s ever eaten before. Dean watches her as she pulls her hair back into a loose bun with an old rubber band, ignoring Cas’ gracious offer.

Cas clears his throat.

In the living room, Alfie plays a video game with Hannah, something violent and blood-spattered, something that has Hannah howling with rage and Alfie laughing maniacally in triumph. Carver huffs fondly at his children as he leans back into the plush couch and flips the next page of his book.

Though he’s been here a few times now, Dean still feels so horribly out of place.

“Dean.”

He takes a deep breath and returns his attention to Cas, who’s watching him intently with those perfectly blue eyes that Dean has developed an intense love-hate relationship with.

“Yeah?” He tries to feign disinterest. It doesn’t work.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out,” Cas says, thumbing nervously at the hem of his shirt, “I just meant you could touch me, if you wanted. Well, wait – that sounds wrong.”

Dean tries not to, but he ends up muffling a small laugh at that, burying his face in the worn cotton of his sleeve and shaking his head. He doesn’t even care what Cas really means, he likes that the permission to touch him as been spoken aloud and exists between them now, even if Dean isn’t ready to act on that yet.

Cas laughs too, but continues. “Were you trying to do something, or…?” His cheeks begin to tint and he bites his lip.

“Oh, uh.” Dean doesn’t know why he feels so suddenly lost, but he finds his words as Becky changes her tune in the kitchen to something slower and sweeter. “I was wondering about your necklace.”

Something brightens on Cas’ face, kindling the distant points of light that flicker in his eyes. Tugging on the chain, Cas pulls the necklace over his head and cradles the oval pendant in his hand, admiring it fondly.

“Saint George,” he says, finally handing it over to Dean so he can get a better look. “He slayed the dragon to save the one he loved.”

The pendant is smooth and shiny along the edges, heavy but barely larger than a quarter. Dean sees the winged serpent first, body long and worm-like beneath the sturdy hooves of the massive horse. The dragon curls upward, tongue furious and spitting fire, but the helmeted saint wields a mighty sword that pins the dragon down by its throat.

Alfie’s the howling one now, but the sound is distant and secondary as Dean pinches the pendant between his fingers, feeling the sharp points of the barbed wings on the pads of his fingertips.

“Pretty cool,” Dean admits, flipping it over to inspect the backside. He expected nothing more but a smooth surface, but he finds Cas’ name engraved into the metal. _To Castiel, With Love_.

“It’s from my dad,” Cas explains, lowering his voice like they’re sharing a secret. “It’s so I don’t forget to be brave, and to stand up for what I believe in. He got it for me when I came out. He knew it was going to be hard for me.”

Must be nice to have a father like that, Dean thinks. Must be nice to have conscious parents who believe in their children so much that they buy a physical reminder of their love and support.

Dean tries to ignore the need to pity himself as he hands the necklace back to Cas. Dean may not have much now, but he once had a father so strong and brave that he gave up his life to save his family. Dean may not have a fancy pendant, but he has his life and the life of his little brother, and they have John to thank for that.

The last thing Dean wants to be right now is bitter and cold. He’s lucky to be here, to be having dinner with a loving family who have been kind enough to include him in their fold, away from Len’s large, calloused hands.

“Your dad seems like a great guy,” Dean offers, hiding the bitter undertones in his voice.

Cas nods, stealing a glance at Carver over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he agrees, then adds, “Your dad seemed nice too.”

With John fresh on his mind, Dean blinks as the shock rides through him and settles at the base of his spine. It takes a minute for him to remember that few people know about John’s existence and that Len appears to fulfill that role quite well. Cas must be trying to be polite, because the extent of his interaction with Len couldn’t have been more than simple eye contact.

But that bitterness bubbles to the top before Dean can stop it, acrid and vile in the back of his throat as he spits, “Len’s not my dad,” and leaves it at that.

Dean can feel the hatred flowing through him in choppy waves, infectious and disease-like as it spreads relentlessly over his skin. It heats his cheeks and sets his teeth on edge, then nausea kicks in and he knows he needs to excuse himself before his eyes gloss over with tears and he embarrasses himself more than he has already.

Cas shifts nervously in his seat, hiding his eyes from Dean’s. He brings the pencil toward his mouth, the soft eraser rolling gently over the pillowy creases of his lips. Dean watches as Cas’ lips curl over the end of the pencil, hears the clack of teeth on plastic as Cas bites it to keep his mouth occupied, to keep himself from saying anything else.

Normally, Dean would stare and daydream about pressing their lips together, about replacing the mechanical pencil with warm flesh. But even with the welcoming sight before him, Dean can’t gather his wits enough to calm down or settle his violent thoughts. He excuses himself from the table, leaving the homework and the chair askew to walk away and get some much needed space.

He’s barely to the hallway when he hears Alfie hiss his brother’s name, whispering something with sharp, serrated words that are undoubtedly cutting Cas into little pieces. If he wasn’t such a coward, he’d turn back and tell Alfie that it isn’t Cas’ fault, it’s Dean’s, _always_ Dean’s, and it’s nothing worth an argument between brothers.

But Dean _is_ a coward, so he continues down the hallway until he descends the stairs and slips into the humid, fragrant laundry room.

He paces at first, trying to figure himself out, but leans against the wall and slides slowly to the floor like he’s done many times before. Somehow over the handful of nights Dean’s spent at the Edlund’s, their laundry room has become his chamber of comforting relief. The machines spin with a lulling whir that relaxes him, so different than the loud and groaning dryer at home that shrieks whenever it spins too fast, or the washer that whines and glugs with every cycle.

It smells nice, too, like lavender and bleach. His clothes at home always end up smelling like stale, moldy water.

When Dean has had a few minutes to himself, the world starts shrinking back into perspective. He hates thinking about Len here, hates mixing the man’s name and presence into the beautiful serenity that Alfie’s home offers. There’s something poisonous about Len and his firm grip on Dean’s life, the way it bleeds thick and slow into everything Dean tries to keep for himself. He can’t stand the thought of Cas meeting Len, of knowing him, of thinking that bastard is truly Dean’s father.

He wants Cas to be kept as far away from that cancer as possible, clean and perfect and safe.

With a dreadful, degraded beat of his heart, Dean wonders if he’s already doomed the Edlund family by coming here and mixing his tainted life with theirs. He wonders if he’s dragging Cas and Alfie down into the murky sewers where they don’t belong.

There’s a knock on the door, light and hesitant.

“Come in,” Dean says, even though it’s not his house. It’s like giving the wind permission to blow.

Though Dean expected Alfie or Becky to enter and scold him, he sees Cas peer around the door and take a cautious step in, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Dinner’s done.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes, looking down at his hands. He’s not sure if what he feels is acceptance or disappointment.

“Can I sit down?” Cas asks. He closes the door behind him, and usually this particular position would have Dean crawling along the floorboards with a tight panic welling in his chest. Being trapped in a room with the only exit blocked off by someone larger and stronger than him isn’t something Dean’s normally able to handle, but he finds that Cas makes him feel safe and well protected; free rather than ensnared.

That feeling is undeserved, unwarranted, but he can’t help it. Cas makes him feel all kinds of things he’s not used to.

Dean nods, but otherwise doesn’t move. He may feel safe but his body still acts on instinct.

Cas sits beside him, leaving a healthy number of inches between them as though he can read Dean’s mind.

“I’m glad you came, Dean. I’m sorry I offended you…I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

Cas smiles, but Dean’s not sure why. Alfie’s brother is full of sympathetic responses that are as sweet as they are confusing, but the anger Dean feels had been redirected toward himself and he knows he doesn’t deserve the olive branch being handed to him.

“Thanks for helping me with my homework,” Cas adds when Dean is silent. “I’m not very good at math.”

“Yes you are,” Dean counters, leaning in closer to Cas despite his best efforts, despite the voice inside telling him not to. “I can tell.”

Cas sighs, but the smile never leaves his face. Dean doesn’t look away, not like he usually does. He lets himself watch the expression change slowly on Cas’ face, from that humble smile into one that’s more serious, more resolute. Dean’s never seen such a variety of simple grins before, much less be on the receiving end of them.

“Okay,” Cas admits, “you got me.”

Dean’s about to reply to that, but then Cas scoots a little closer and their shoulders are almost touching, only a sliver of space between them as he pulls his knees up to his chest. The lavender blends smoothly with Cas’ scent, and even the subtle undertones of sweat and bleach smell good together when Dean dares to lean in just a tiny bit further.

He feels the anger flutter away on thorny wings, leaving him raw but devoid of the violence that consumed him only moments before. Cas’ presence soothes the prickly wounds and pours into the empty spaces, filling him, warming him, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to close the space and crawl helplessly into Cas’ lap.

But he wants to. He wants to so badly.

Cas sucks in a deep breath, his eyes lowering to the ground where their hands have both dropped, palms pressed flat into the white linoleum. Dean looks down too, noticing how close their hands are, how their fingers are so close that they can feel the shared heat between them.

Then Cas moves – just his pinky at first, gradually followed by the rest until his hand is covering Dean’s.

God, his hand feels so nice, so much different than the crushing grip of life at home.

“Uh,” Dean breathes, because he’s too shocked to say anything else, too dazed.

“Do you think, um,” Cas starts, swallowing around the uneasy lump in his throat, “would you like to hang out sometime? Just you and me?”

Len’s blustering voice in the back of Dean’s head fades to white noise. The clink of ice against glass and the river-like pour of flowery spirits that follows him everywhere slips away and leaves him alone. Even the dull ache that lives in the pit of his stomach seems to dwindle as Dean lifts his gaze to meet the eyes peering into his.

He tries to make his lips move, tries to answer Cas with more than weak whisper, but he’s trembling too much to do more than make his teeth clatter.

Instead, Dean nods without tearing his eyes away, and it’s the bravest he’s ever felt since he followed John’s orders and carried his little brother out of the flames.

They’re so close, sharing the same air, Cas’ hand steady and warm on top of Dean’s, and Dean thinks this could be it: a moment so perfect that he’s safe in it, no matter how fleeting.

They sit unmoving, afraid to spoil it and unsure of how to end it even if they wanted to. Dean’s content to sit there forever, harbored in Cas’ presence, anchored by his clammy hand. Cas is breathing so evenly that it masks his nerves, the moisture on his palm the only clue that he’s as flustered and out of control as Dean.

But from deep within his pocket the cellphone buzzes, and the moment is gone.

҉     ҉     ҉ 

There’s a bounce in Dean’s step and he can’t hide it.

He can hardly remember the last time he sang, the last time he hummed along to a song. A lifetime ago, perhaps. There’d been nothing to sing about and certainly no one to sing to.

But as Dean navigates his small kitchen, throwing dinner together for his hungry family, there’s a tune in his head and he goes with it, singing the words without shame.

Mary’s in the living room with Sam, playing music on the stereo. She’d been inspired by Dean’s song, an old favorite of hers, popped in the CD and turned up the volume. Hey Jude echoes into the kitchen and Dean sings louder.

Times like these are rare, precious things in the Winchester household. Even Sammy’s getting into it, teasing Mary with fond, loving words. The curtains are pushed aside and moonlight filters in bright and strong. In front of the window, like a trinket ballerina in a music box, Mary twirls. Sam laughs.

Dean checks on the shepherd’s pie in the oven, waiting for the mashed potatoes on top to brown. It smells amazing, not that Dean’s in the habit of patting himself on the back, but Len brought home a wad of cash and then let them loose at the store. Their cart was so full by the time they finished that Dean pinched himself discreetly in the check-out line to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

It’s been ages since they’ve had a real dinner, let alone dessert in the freezer to spoil their palates before bed. Sure, Becky’s a great cook and Dean appreciates how often he’s invited to eat in their home, but his nerves get the better of him and he ends up going to bed hungry anyway.

Hey Jude fades into the next song, another Beetles classic. Dean doesn’t consider himself a big fan of their music, but he’s a fan of the way the lyrics settle into Mary’s spine and move her, bringing her to life. She’s a little silly with wine but pleasant, smiling, giggling about something with Sam.

And Dean – he’s got a date.

A real date, with a person he likes.

It’s like something from the movies, something sweet and fictional, distant on the horizon of his vague, futuristic dreams. Just the idea of being with someone in that way felt unattainable, unwanted for so long that even his brightest, most daring imaginings wouldn’t reach that far.

When the shepherd’s pie is finally done, Dean pulls it out from the oven and then lets it cool on the stove top while he sets the table. He gets the nice plates out, the one Mary saves for their finer meals when the mood strikes her and the budgets allows for it. He feels like celebrating, like leaping on the goddamn sun, and there’s a real dinner about to be served. Why not.

By the couch, Mary stumbles and flops to the ground, laughing so hard that tears spring to her eyes at the corners. Sam tries to help her up, taking her hand in his and pulling, but she’s too heavy and too uncooperative for him to do much. Sam’s a tiny thing with the limbs and strength of a grasshopper, but it doesn’t stop him from trying, from telling her to get up off the floor.

Len comes out from the bedroom, only a stained pair of pants hanging low on his hips and a mild sheen of sweat above his brow. He’s scowling, eyes narrowed, lips curled down.

He stops in the living room where Mary’s still on the floor, catching her breath from the bout of laughter. He watches as Sam ends his efforts, dropping their mother’s hand and letting it flop heavily to the floor. She’s a bit drunker than Dean realized with her arms so heavy and wilting like that.

Len nudges her with his foot – a sharp, careless movement that causes her to hiss and grasp her shoulder. “The fuck are you doing?” Len growls, wiping tiredly at his face. “So fucking stupid.”

Sam has already stepped back, afraid to get too close to the line of fire, but he still glares at Len from beneath his dark fringe of hair.

“Jus’ having fun,” Mary says, rolling over onto her stomach.

Len rolls his eyes. “You’re not a dog, are you? Get off the floor.”

Mary does as she’s told, but the shift in her features tells Dean that it’s more for the benefit of her children than for herself. She burns holes into the back of Len’s head when he turns and makes his way to the table.

Sam does the same, silently boiling just beneath the red flush of his skin. It’s the look he gets before he starts the cry, the look that reveals his sense of disappointment and betrayal.

As if the kid really expected anything else. As if he actually had the expectation that the night would end the same way it started.

Dean’s still floating on clouds, high above the mess of emotions and snide remarks where the rest of his family is swimming even if the lighter mood has been thoroughly snuffed out. What happens tonight doesn’t change that he has a date, he realizes, and he clings to that bit of knowledge as he brings the food to the table and sits.

Mary is still smiling about something as she refills her glass of wine before joining them, unaffected by Len’s sour mood.

She sways in her chair, slowly, rhythmically. It takes a moment for Dean to realize she’s leaning to the music, back and forth, her eyes closed even as she takes another sip of Franzia.

Across the table, Len stares impatiently at her, shaking his head.

Dean dishes them up, giving everyone a generous scoop.

Len digs in right away. It’s a small relief, one that Dean hopes will make way for a smoother evening. His mother is in a good mood, clearly happy about something in an unspoiled way that he can’t help but find endearing. Her movements are sloppy but she’s functioning well enough to feed herself, taking a small bite of the mashed potatoes first.

“Oh, Dean,” Mary coos, her hand curling around Dean’s elbow and squeezing, “this is so good, sweetheart. You’re a little chef.”

Dean’s heart warms with the praise and he finds himself smiling, too.

“Your father could cook, you know.” Mary adds, taking another modest bite before washing it down with wine. Her eyes dim faintly at the thought. “He didn’t know a wooden spoon from a baking dish, but he could whip up a casserole if you asked him to.”

Sam huffs in disbelief, keeping his head down. Dean wants to kick him under the table, wants to snap at him for being so obviously flippant, but his little brother isn’t wrong. It’s hard to know what the truth is once their mother starts in with her stories.

Last week John could burn a pot of water. This week John could make a casserole.

But Dean doesn’t care so much about what Mary says, he just cares that she’s saying it. He hates having to hear the relentless sob stories he’s been forced to listen to a hundred times, the ones that are told through hiccups and choked sobs, the ones that leave him feeling older and used by the time they’re done. But she’s happy now and Dean likes to hear the good things about his dad, even if they aren’t true.

“Yeah?” Dean says. 

“Yes,” she assures him, cheeks pink. “Definitely.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes, but it’s mostly comfortable. Len and Sam both share discomfited, angry looks, but Dean ignores them in favor of Mary’s giddy pose and the blonde curls of hair around her face.

She’s so lovely, he thinks. She’s delicate like this, almost breakable, picking gingerly at the plate and pressing her glossy lips against the rim of the wine glass. It amazes him how gentle she can be when she’s the least inhibited, how soft, able to cradle the glass in her hands and set it lightly back on the table even when her arms are sloshed and aimless.

Dean tries to compare it to a memory, to the fragmented pieces of her younger self he has stored in his head for safe keeping, but he finds none. He can only remember the times when she mastered careful tasks despite the Franzia in her system, how she’d been able to poke birthday candles into fluffy cakes and stick Band-Aids on open wounds with one hand holding a wine glass.

Mary’s a warm, tender person with or without the alcohol. Dean knows it.

Sam is still teetering on the edge of an outburst, but he manages to scrape away the ground beef and push it to the side of his plate. Dean had forgotten about Sam’s most recent vow, his oath to stay away from food that had once been a living, breathing creature. Dean thinks it’s stupid, but he doesn’t care enough about what Sam chooses to put in his mouth to make a big deal out of it. The kid could probably benefit from a little protein though, to be honest.

Sam’s got this thing about protecting the innocent lately, about not wanting to hurt something that’s capable of feeling pain. It’s admirable, and Dean can respect it. His little brother will probably turn out to be the kind of man that Dean wishes he could be.

He wishes he cold feel passionate about something like that, that he could see that far ahead into his own life.

Len clears his throat after a gulp of milk. “You look happy today.”

Dean didn’t realize Len was speaking to him until he felt the weight of six eyes staring into him, heavy and unblinking.

Dean nods. “I had a pretty good week,” he confesses, unapologetic. Sam sits higher in his chair and blinks.

The movement catches Len’s attention, pulling his eyes away from Dean’s to watch as Sam fidgets awkwardly in his chair. “Eat the beef,” Len says. The tone of his voice leaves little room for discussion. Sam pokes at the greasy pile of meat with his fork.

“What made it so good?” Mary asks, pushing her plate away as though she’s had enough to eat. She makes a show of stretching and patting her stomach before finishing off what’s left in her glass. Dean doesn’t believe for a minute that she’s satisfied, but he can only guess at her motives. It’s easy to lose an appetite in this house.

“I, uh – well,” Dean starts. His skin heats at the same time his fingers start trembling, his heart hurting where it’s stuck to the inside of his ribs. He’s halted by a memory of Len whispering promises of pain in the darkness, too black to see the shape of his lips curl around the seductive threats. When Dean swallows, he can almost feel the chaffing leather of the invisible collar belted there.

Mary’s eyes widen in anticipation. Sam starts squishing the meat beneath his fork, almost playing with it, an act that doesn’t go unnoticed by their all-seeing patriarch. Len drives a fist down into the table, the tail end of the fork in his hand denting the wood.

“Eat the fucking beef, Princess,” Len commands.

“I’m not a girl,” Sam snaps back, but his body remains low and curved away, sinking in his seat.

“Then stop acting like a little bitch and eat the damn food.”

“Don’t call me a bitch.” Sam’s voice grows louder, more firm, but he keeps his eyes hidden behind the length of his bangs. Len’s growing impatient, already furious for having to repeat himself and the blatant disrespect Sam refuses to rein in.

Len’s hand twitches. Dean thinks for a moment that Len might strike his little brother, might pop him across the mouth to shut him up, so he looks to Mary for guidance. She’s just sitting there watching it play out, one finger tracing the rim of her glass, cheeks red and warm.

Though she’s failed as a mother in many ways, the greatest of her crimes is indifference.

Dean does what he’s been doing for years; he leaps out front and takes a bullet for his brother.

“I was asked out on a date,” Dean announces, earning the attention of everyone at the table. It works.

Mary – no doubt glad for the change of subject – pats Dean’s arm again in that way that feels like a reward. “Oh, honey! How exciting.”

Len’s hand uncurls, but is no less menacing where it rests on the table. “A date?”

Sam lifts his chin enough to be considered part of the conversation without saying anything, but his face is as angry and ungrateful as ever. He takes a bite of the vegetables and lets the fork linger between his teeth.

Dean nods, and the weight of his confession settles around him, folding over his skin. The panic that crawls up his throat and settles lump-like on his tongue nearly suffocates him.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” Mary prods, and damn her for being so curious. He shouldn’t have said anything.

Across the table, Sam huffs a tiny laugh. Dean remembers their conversation in vivid detail, how he’d told his little brother about the pathetic crush he was harboring for another guy. He knows that Sam wouldn’t call him out on it if he lied, but Dean’s only a good liar when Len isn’t around. He had to be for all the secrets he was forced to keep, but Len’s burrowed so deeply into his bones that he couldn’t lie to him if he tried.

“Castiel,” Dean says, then bites the soft flesh on the inside of his cheek.

“Castiel,” Len repeats slowly, tasting the shape of the name in his mouth. His lips curl in disgust.

“The boy you were tutoring?” Mary asks unhelpfully, and the air deflates around them as the table goes silent. Of course she would recognize it, strange and unique as it is.

The last of Dean’s happiness trickles out of him in a sluggish bleed from his wrist.

Len does something Dean would never have expected; he laughs. “You’re a faggot?”

Sam pushes his plate away too, the food barely touched. His arms cross over his chest as he scoots back with the chair.

“Leonard,” Mary scolds, but she’s annoyed rather than protective as she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

The laughter fades but the wicked smile on Len’s face does not. “Jesus, Mary. Got a couple of fairies for sons, huh?”

“I’m not a fairy!” Sam rises from his chair so quickly that it falls back against the wall behind him. His chest is heaving as he sucks in dry, shallow breaths, tears welling in his eyes and spilling down the pale skin of his cheekbones.

He looks so small like this: an aphid battling against the fat drops of rain sweeping him downhill. Len smirks, dragging his tongue over the food caught in his teeth, washing over Sam like a flood. “Not so convincing with tears in your eyes, Samantha.”

When Mary stands, the expectation in Sam’s eyes is apparent, heartbreaking. He waits for her to say something, for her to stand up for him, but the hope flickers out as she crosses the kitchen to refill her wine for the third time.

He looks to Dean to take her place.

Dean trembles and says nothing.

Sam growls a wordless noise, betrayed, and storms off to his bedroom to hide and cry in solitude. Dean’s heart aches for him, wants to reach out and promise him that things won’t always be this way, not for Sam. Even now Sam has a freedom that Dean does not: a toll that’s been paid in full by Dean’s silence.

“You’d think a little twink like Samantha would enjoy having meat in his mouth,” Len jokes, unaffected by Sam’s agonizing display. “Like Dean here, huh?”

Dean’s muscles freeze so tightly that his body aches with the task, his stomach twisting into a cold and unfamiliar shape.

“Give it a rest,” Mary mumbles, dropping gracelessly back into her chair. “He sounds like a sweet boy, anyway. Do we get to meet him?”

 _No_ , he screams from somewhere deep inside, _not in a million fucking years_.

But a million years feels rather small in this tight space, in the crevice that Dean’s been pushed into by God’s pitiless thumb. He’s trapped here, doomed to the shade and soil beneath the mighty oak that towers over him. There is only Len in his future, he thinks. Len’s eyes and mouth and hands, touching and taking what they want.

Dean finds that he cannot answer, that he can’t stop the quivering of his lip or the rawness of his chest like he’s been lapped at by sandpaper tongues. He thinks of Sam crying into his pillow and feeling rightfully grassed, and he thinks of his mother, floating on a distant plane where all is pleasant and she is oblivious. Dean wishes he could separate himself like that.

Mary doesn’t wait for an answer if she was expecting one. Her eyes go half-lidded and relaxed as she leans on her elbows and takes another sip, humming along to the music still playing in the background. Len watches him, though, closely and undeterred. He watches as Dean gathers the plates and takes them to the sink, as he puts the rest of the uneaten dinner into Tupperware bowls and stacks them in the fridge.

He stares at Dean the way snakes regard mice.

As Dean recedes into his own room, hollowed of all the excitement he felt earlier, he can’t help but notice that it feels a lot like scurrying.

҉     ҉     ҉

He lays in the quiet aftermath, his breath heavy. Dean blinks away the last of the fog in his eyes and takes in the stillness around him.

He ignores the deep-seated ache where it hurts, ignores the maddening twinge of pain when he shifts a little beneath the sheet. Len’s belt buckle is cold and sharp against the back of his thighs, so he curls his legs upward toward his chest and catches his breath.

“You smell good,” Len hums, nosing lazily at the nape of Dean’s neck. He takes a long, slow breath through the soft hairs there before kissing the skin. His lips are rubbery and wet.

Dean feels ugly, and a little gross. He’s afraid to admit, even to himself, that he’s not worthy of the affection that comes after the hurried, sloppy touches that leave them both sweaty and slumped.

He already knew that he could never share these kinds of touches with Cas, but the nausea and the sticky mess in his shorts confirms it. Dean can’t touch anyone without shriveling like a drying leaf, can’t even accept the gentler kisses on his shoulder or the soft fingers smoothing circles over his hips without feeling sick and twisted up. He wants to scream but bites his tongue instead, turning his face into the pillow to smear away the moisture caught in his lashes.

“Got money?” Len mumbles just behind the shell of Dean’s ear, hands moving upward to settle over the lowest part of Dean’s abdomen.

He doesn’t understand the question, doesn’t want to answer it. His skin prickles with unease beneath Len’s possessive palm and a second wave of nausea makes him groan where his face is still buried in the pillow.

“For your date,” Len clarifies. Dean knows better than to answer, than to fall into whatever trap Len is setting. “It’s cute. Poor kid, though. You gonna let him down easy, or break his heart?”

Dean does what he can to tuck his legs in closer to his chest, wrapping an arm around his knees to keep them in place. Len’s hand is still firm against his stomach, but the touch doesn’t feel sexual as he drags a thumb through the thin trail of hair just below Dean’s navel.

He can’t tell if Len is mocking him, though. Len doesn’t think whatever Dean has going on with some other boy is serious, but he could just as easily say no and lock Dean in his bedroom.

Instead, Len makes calm, soothing noises in Dean’s ear. He gently blows warm air over the goose-bumps budding along Dean’s exposed skin, rubs comforting fingers into his slightly dampened flesh. Dean still can’t bring himself to appreciate the gesture, and the warped feeling winding through his insides only intensifies with every second their bodies are pressed together.

He wonders – for the umpteenth time since meeting Cas – if he’s still broken.

Len presses a languid kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, grinding his hips once more against Dean’s backside before sighing and rolling away onto his back. He unwillingly pushes himself from Dean’s bed, huffing irritated noises at the silence like he’s considering staying and dealing with the consequences as they come. Dean listens to the clink of Len’s belt buckle and the drag of his zipper as he dresses.

“I’ll give you twenty bucks tomorrow,” Len whispers out into the darkness, his voice still sweet and generous as though he’s giving his beloved a special gift. “Bet you’re gonna break his heart, pretty as you are.”

Dean hears the threat woven into the sugary compliment: the suggestion that there is no other choice but to break things off with Cas before they even begin.

But that’s not what Dean wants. He doesn’t want to stop seeing Cas, or to stop going to Alfie’s house like he’s part of their family. He doesn’t want to lay silently and submissive as Len works his way into Dean’s shorts and grunts himself to completion.

Yet those are things he cannot control, things that only add to the terrifying unpredictability of the world around him.

Len leaves the room and their conversation on that daunting note, closing the door with practiced, gentle ease.

It might be a surge of bravery from having Len gone, or a sudden case of deep, dangerous insanity, but Dean doesn’t want to give up Cas, not yet. Regardless of the consequences.

He closes his eyes and pretends the fading heat caught in the blankets behind him belongs to blue eyes and shy, clammy hands. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, and it's like one in the morning. Sorry for any and all errors!

Dean keeps his head down throughout the day, ignoring the ache in his muscles and the sharper, crueler ache deep inside that makes it difficult to sit in the plastic, unforgiving chairs.

Alfie keeps his distance at school. He’s learned when to protect the fragile space between them, and it’s just another reason why Dean’s grateful for the friendship. He doesn’t have to explain himself or make excuses, and Alfie knows better than let his feelings bruise over Dean’s intermittent silence.

Cas doesn’t bother him either, though they don’t usually see each other during the school day anyway. Dean had managed to completely ignore Cas’ existence until just recently, and he realized it’s not hard to do that when he never lifts his eyes from the hallway carpet. The final bell chimes as a mercy and Dean shuffles out of the crowded building without so much as a nod toward the Edlund brothers.

He just wants to get home and take a shower, even if they never feel like they’re enough.

He’s not surprised when his phone buzzes twice in his pocket, signaling the arrival of a text message. Dean feels weird having a little piece of technology on him that makes it easy for anyone to reach him at any time, regardless of what he’s doing, but he supposes he’ll adjust to the latest intrusion with time. He always does.

Nobody’s home when Dean enters and drops his stuff on the kitchen table. He calls out for Sammy first, then his mother, and gets nothing but silence in response. Len’s truck isn’t in the driveway and there’s no television hum coming from their bedroom. Dean sighs and lets his shoulders slump.

He pulls the phone out of his pocket and flips it open, frustrated when his fingers slip and hit the wrong button. Dumb little thing makes Dean feel like he’s got gorilla hands and he’ll never understand how people can text so quickly. He’s finally able to open the message from Alfie, but then grunts when the screen is obscured by the bright kitchen light. He’d throw the damn thing out the window if Len wouldn’t punish him for it.

**Alfie:**

**Is the date still on tonight?**

Dean bites the inside of his cheek as he replies in the affirmative. He’d been so nervous today that he almost threw up, another reason for him to duck and cover while navigating through the bustle of his peers. Guilt swells in his stomach when he realizes what that must have looked like, for Cas to have been anticipating their date tonight with Dean avoiding them and hiding behind the hood of his oversized sweater.

The phone buzzes again before Dean even has a chance to set it down.

**Alfie:**

**Awesome. Take it easy on him or I’ll kick your ass** **J** **J**

Ah, the ever present reminder that Dean is capable of hurting another person while simultaneously not being good enough for them.

**Dean:**

**I will**

**Alfie:**

**Just kidding. Kinda. It’s his first date**

_It’s mine too_ , Dean thinks selfishly. Surely Alfie must know that. Dean’s never been on a date, never been touched so gently and fearfully the way Cas covered Dean’s hand with his own. How Alfie can point out that Dean’s never been interested in anyone before and then subtly accuse him of being predatory in the same breath is a mystery.

Maybe Dean just reeks of failure and trouble the way he’s always suspected.

He frowns, and looks at the clock.

Cas will be picking him up in a few hours, so he takes the rare opportunity that solitude affords him and knocks out his homework before he can be interrupted.

Math is a pleasant breeze, but his English assignment is harder than he expected. He can’t seem to focus on the words as he writes them and he keeps forgetting the book he’s supposed to be writing about.

The couch is soft but not soft enough, and all he can think about is the point of pain so deep that no one should have been able to touch him there. It doesn’t usually hurt this bad, and he has to fight with his mind to think about anything else. Homework is almost always his escape but it’s doing nothing for him now.

It takes him two hours to write a single page, and the words are lifeless are barely more than filler.

The phone buzzes again but Dean ignores it, throwing his pen across the room instead. It hits the wall with an underwhelming click of noise and clatters to the ground, landing on the carpet behind the television. The gust of anger is so unfamiliar to him that he doesn’t recognize the outburst as his own, so he stares at the wall for a moment before dropping his gaze down to his hands.

So much has changed in such a short amount of time, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He thinks about taking a shower, remembering how badly he wanted one when he was on his way home, but the idea of standing in that tiled room suddenly has him nauseous. He’d do little more than choke on the steam from the showerhead and prune the skin on his fingertips.

Resolute, Dean stands from the couch with a twinge of pain and a hiss on his lips. He leaves his unfinished homework on the table and kicks off his shoes, feeling strangely rebellious in the quiet, empty room. He doesn’t embrace the weeds of mutiny sprouting in his thoughts but he doesn’t quite stomp them out, either. He’s young and he’s angry and he doesn’t know why.

There is a veritable list of reasons for why Dean deserves to feel as angry as he does, but right now there’s simply no rhyme or reason to it. He wants to throw something again, wants to punch a hole in the wall and scream at the top of his lungs.

But all the swelling rage in his chest has nowhere to go, so Dean does what he can to push it back down to manageable levels before changing his clothes. He holds his breath, he clenches and unclenches his fists, and he hums a familiar Metallica tune until it doesn’t hurt as bad.

In his bedroom, the closet door creaks as he pushes it open in search of something clean to wear, but his selection is sparse even when everything is freshly laundered so he doesn’t bother trying to be picky about it. He nabs the first shirt he sees – another relic of his late father – and pulls it on over his head. It’s a little tight and unforgiving around the neck, but it’s soft and dark with the faint smell of cigarette smoke that reminds him of his mother threaded deeply in the fibers.

His hand traces over the faint, washed out lettering across his chest. It helps more than humming a rock ballad.

The front door swings open with a groan that Dean can hear from his bedroom. His heart rattles alarmingly in his chest and he’s stuck, unable to move, counting down the seconds until the door slams and thunderous footsteps barrel down the hallway.

A full minute passes, maybe more, but the slam never comes and the only steps he hears are soft against the carpet. The gentle steps padding around the living room could be anyone’s, but the television turns on and the unmistakable sound of John Wayne’s voice echoes dully through the slight gap beneath Dean’s door.

He considers staying in his bedroom and sneaking out through the second story window when Cas shows up, willing to risk going through his first date with a broken leg, but there’s enough evidence in the living room for Len to know that Dean is home and there’s no avoiding an encounter one way or the other.

So he puts on a pair of clean socks, runs a comb through his hair, and tugs on the largest hoodie he owns. It feels a little like wearing a tent, but no one’s ever accused a tent of being a sexy tease so that’s good enough for him.

The cellphone vibrates against his leg.

**Len:**

**almost home**

**Len:**

**Not in the mood to play hide and seek**

Dean’s gut twists as he reads the words, wishing he had checked his phone before throwing his little tantrum and indulging in those fantasies of running away or punching something. He could have cleaned up after himself, could have put his shoes nicely by the door and…waited.

But there’s no reason to think Len is in a foul mood, nothing other than the blunt text telling Dean to stop hiding and come out from his bedroom. He knows Dean has a date tonight, and he made sure to leave Dean with the reminder that the date can never be more than a casual way to pass the time. It’s hard to forget when his ass hurts too badly to sit.

He shoves the phone back in his pocket and sighs, making his way out to the living room where he knows Len is waiting for him.

As the volume grows louder, the smell of smoke intensifies. Len’s dimpling the couch with one knee on the cushion as he searches in the dark crevices for loose change. The television casts a sepia hue over the room and the curling smoke from the lit cigarette in the ashtray has shadows dancing on the coffee table.

It’s like a scene from a shitty noir film or something.

Len’s dressed abnormally nice, though it’s still pretty casual for most. His jeans are faded and torn around the knees but his shirt is clean and buttoned up, even tucked in. The stubble has been shaved from his face and Dean is reminded of just how young Len actually is. Mary’s habits have aged her, but Len’s lifestyle doesn’t seem like it’s caught up with him yet.

Dean’s not sure what to do with himself while he waits to be acknowledged, so he stands by the arm of the smaller couch and wipes his sweaty palms against his pants.

Len finishes quickly and flattens down his ochre hair with a few smooth movements of his hand, and Dean wonders if his step father is trying to look more presentable for his date than he is.

“Here,” Len says, his voice chillingly gentle. He pulls out cash from his pocket and hands Dean three twenties. “For your date.”

It’s a lot more than what he offered yesterday, and while that might be exciting for most kids these days, Dean can’t muster the courage to reach out and take it.

Len smiles and steps closer, taking the liberty to tuck the money into the front pocket of Dean’s hoodie. “Aren’t you excited?”

Dean can’t actually tell anymore, not with the way his blood feels thick and pulpy in his veins.

He settles on a shrug for his response.

“You nervous?”

Dean nods, because that’s something he knows with certainty. He’s been a nervous wreck all day, gut twisting and limbs trembling as he kept himself folded inward and small as possible. Even if there hadn’t been a date scheduled, Dean would still be shaking beneath the heavy weight of Len’s unblinking stare.

The smile on Len’s face doesn’t falter when he says, “Don’t be, kiddo. These things are supposed to be fun.”

When Len drops to the couch, he pats the empty space beside him and gestures for Dean to join him.

Dean twists his lips and bites the inside of his cheek before moving forward, and his skin crawls as he rounds the couch and sits. He doesn’t wear the pain on his face when the pressure hurts worse than it did before, and he doesn’t make a sound when Len’s arm drapes inelegantly over his shoulder.

Dean takes a deep breath and looks up. The clock on the wall ticks closer to Cas’ arrival.

“Where’s mom?” he asks, and he realizes he’s been asking that question a lot more recently. She’s home about as often as Sam is these days, and Dean’s far lonelier when he’s left with the only remaining company than when he’s by himself.

Len’s fingers pinch playfully at the arm of Dean’s sweater. “She went down to Sturgis to meet up with some friends,” he answers, but the look on his face makes Dean think there’s more the story he’s not hearing. A lot of Len’s explanations are like that.

On the screen, Len’s favorite actor rambles on about things that make no sense while a young blonde disrobes behind a curtain. He doesn’t understand what Len gets from these movies, not when the dialogue is confusing and the culture is painfully outdated.

The girl tries on some frilly neck thing, presumably something fashionable back in the 1940’s, but all Dean can see is a dumb doilie.

He thinks of Cas, and he wonders what would happen if he gave his date a neck-doilie as a gift. Nothing good, probably. One thought dissipates into the next, and then he’s picturing Cas wearing nothing but ridiculous, frilly-white lace around his neck.

“Whatchya smilin’ about?” Len asks, leaning in close. Dean can smell the cigarette strongly on Len’s lips, thicker and more repulsive than the smoke still blooming up from the ashtray. He tries to turn away but Len’s hand stops him, sliding up from his arm to rest firmly on the back of his neck.

Dean feels like a marionette, his body controlled by the firm grip of another, wooden bones stiff and helpless to move on their own.

When Len’s hand relaxes and his fingers stroke softly against Dean’s skin, he says, “It’s nice to see you smile.”

Dean can feel the heat prickling on his cheeks as he remains completely still. Even his breathing is noiseless, muffled by the sudden presence of a knot in his throat.

“You used to be such a smiley kid – always happy about something,” Len continues, and now Dean feels guilty and shamefully remorse. He’s not sure why, but it’s there and barbed deep in his chest, dragging him down. Disappointment follows quickly and Dean can’t stop himself from looking up at Len with an apology in his eyes.

He counts only three dark flecks in the golden-hazel of Len’s irises before Len crowds him against the couch and pushes their mouths together.

The taste of ashes and menthol is worse than the smell. Dean twists under Len’s grip, squirming ineffectively against the rough material of the couch. His sweater clings to it and warps strangely around Dean’s body when he tries to roll, but then Len pushes him down until his back is flat and his left leg flails off the cushion to the floor.

The sharp pain in his ass radiates up through his spine and he whimpers when Len’s hips pin him down. Len is too thickly muscled and tall for Dean to gain an advantage, and really, it’s not like there’s anything left for Dean to lose. His step father has opened him up and laid him bare so many times that resistance only adds to the foreplay. With concentrated effort, Dean lets his body go limp and pliant as he bears the full weight Len’s torso.

Their mouths are still connected, and though Dean doesn’t actively participate in the kiss it happens anyway; Len’s mouth is hungry and excited, licking Dean’s lips apart until he can slide his tongue in, but the rough movements that put them in this position are gone and replaced with slow, reassuring petting.

Dean closes his eyes and thinks, absurdly, of Bobby. He doesn’t pretend to be somewhere else, but he can’t help but wonder what he’d be doing right now if he’d followed through with their plan and ditched this fucked up excuse for a family. He could be playing with Rumsfeld or counting the stars from the hood of his dad’s old Impala. Bobby’d have to call his name from beneath the flickering porch light, telling him it’s late and time to hit the hay.

Instead, Dean’s unwavering loyalty ( _pity_ ) for his mother keeps him hobbled and home bound, pinned beneath the eager attentions of a man more than twice his age.

Dean hears the pathetic, half-weeping sounds he’s making involuntarily and it doubles his nausea. There’s a tight pull in his stomach that threatens to snap when he twists his head away to catch his breath and whine. His backside is reaching unbearable levels of pain and he can’t stop the wounded noises from spilling out of his mouth.

Then Len slows, his breath steady and warm against Dean’s cheek.

It would be so much easier to hate him if he wasn’t so confusing, if he didn’t leave Dean feeling hopelessly stupid and insecure after every brush of skin or point of contact. He knows it’s wrong, he knows that he should be able to resist and have those efforts be respected, but then Len touches him softly and whispers against his jawline like a tender, attentive lover. Len makes him feel so unworthy and ungrateful, like he’s just too dumb to recognize how good he has it and how easily it could all be taken away.

Dean may not know if he hates his step father, but he knows he hates what these secrets have done to him. He knows that he hates himself.

The doorbell chimes and Dean startles, jerking his body and almost hitting his head against Len’s.

“Date’s here,” Len smirks, giving a final roll of his hips before pushing himself up and away. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and watches as Dean tries to get his heartbeat under control.

It hurts to sit up but considerably less than it did when he’d been pinioned, so he rolls off the couch and hits the floor with a thud. Len laughs, nudging Dean’s leg with his foot. “Want me to answer the door? I wouldn’t mind meeting this kid.”

“Don’t,” Dean says, nearly choking on his own spit as he scrambles to his feet. He uses the coffee table to pull himself up and gets ashes on his fingers in the process, which he smears off on the knees of his jeans.

Unoffended by Dean’s protest, Len keeps the smile on his face and winks. “Have fun, boy. Be back by midnight.”

The bolt of anger Dean dampened earlier resurfaces with a particularly sickened flip of his stomach. His fists clench and his nostrils flare uselessly as he tries to get enough air in through his nose. “What happens if I’m not back by midnight?”

Len’s smile doesn’t so much as widen as it does deepen, one brow lifting in a mockery of interest. His grin is Cheshire-like as his tongue peeks out between his teeth.

The doorbell rings again.

“Your carriage will turn into a pumpkin,” Len says, leaning forward. “You’ll lose your slipper at the ball and the fancy illusion will fade, kiddo. No Prince Charming in this story.”

He turns his attention back to The Duke, plucking the cigarette from the ash tray to take another drag.

Dean tries not to bite the inside of his cheek as he straightens his clothes and puts on his shoes. He doesn’t look at Len again, doesn’t even glance in his direction, but he knows that Len’s not watching his movements anymore. It’s the other blade of the double-edged sword, the second of Len’s inscrutable punishments; cold-shouldered indifference.

When Dean finally answers the door, Cas actually looks surprised to see him. He smiles nervously with tinted cheeks and makes a half-hearted attempt to look around Dean and see inside the apartment. Dean doesn’t idle in the doorway long enough for Cas to check it out, closing the door quickly behind himself and brushing Cas’ shoulder with his own as he walks past.

 * * * * *

The straw is cold and flavorless in his mouth, like the ice water. Dean bites the tip of it to keep his mouth occupied as he stares indolently at the scattered bits of décor on the walls. His fingers trace linear patterns through the condensation on his glass and the beads of moisture wick away the grime on palms.

They’re in an actual restaurant, not the stop-and-go diners or the gas station in his neighborhood with the nacho cheese hot dogs. The eatery is nothing upper class or fancy; there are collections of strange memorabilia strung up like art, the pendant lights are old and weathered, and the staff members are dressed modestly in black slacks and aprons. Still, this kind of place isn’t somewhere Dean’s been accustomed to and most of the patrons are dressed a little nicer than faded jeans and hoodies.

Cas certainly looks the part, all clean and nicely groomed like a handsome blue-blood. It’s not like he’s wearing a tuxedo with a monocle perched on his eye, but his style is miles above Dean’s and the disparity between their appearance is obvious.

It makes the cash in Dean’s pocket feel heavier and the body beneath his clothes feel less worthy.

Dean can’t seem to switch gears and relax, either. He can’t stop thinking about Len, about how his breath must smell like an ashtray and that the plush booth they’re sitting in still isn’t quite soft enough to dull the worrying ache.

Cas is mercifully patient, smiling that wholesomely genuine grin of his and giving Dean the space he’s been hoping for. It makes Dean wonder why, considering they’re supposed to be on a fun, romantic date. They were more talkative and affectionate when discussing mathematical formulas in front of Cas’ parents.

In a whirl of suspicion, Dean drops his eyes to stare at Cas, curious and confused. Though he didn’t admit it to himself before, Dean realizes that he expected Cas to touch him a hell of a lot more than he has. Now that Dean thinks about it, rewinding through their short time together from the apartment to the restaurant, Cas hasn’t tried to touch or hold him at all.

He watches as Cas thumbs through the menu, his gaze pausing every so often as he spots something that looks appetizing. That annoyingly sweet smile is still on his face even when he’s not looking in Dean’s direction, like Cas is simply happy just to be here. He doesn’t know why that makes him so uncomfortable.

But the longer Dean stares at the boy across from him, the softer his insides start to feel. The barbed wires around his chest start to loosen and pulpy velvet folds over the scabs left behind. There’s something wonderful and inexplicable about Cas’ presence that does strange and terrifying things to Dean’s heart.

Uncomfortable though he may be, Dean is still thankful for the escape he gets from home. For the uncomplicated, quiet company.

The waitress comes by with their dark, bubbly sodas and takes their orders. Cas orders a meal that sounds delicious but is stupidly expensive, some kind of salmon dish that makes Dean ashamed to order his cheeseburger. He tries to class it up by ordering the mushroom-swiss version, but he still feels like a loser when the waitress gives him a forced smile and leaves with their menus.

“So…” Cas says, tapping his fingers on the table. The tint still hasn’t left his cheeks. “How was your day?”

The straw between Dean’s teeth pops out and catches on his lip, flicking him in the face with dots of his own spit. It’s not as gross as having a warm tongue drag across the back of his neck, not nearly as degrading as having his mouth taste like Len’s against his will, but Dean still blushes furiously and wipes at his face with the back of his sleeve.

“Fine,” Dean stammers, then shrugs his shoulders. “Same as every day.”

Cas tilts his head in consideration, and his smile changes from sweet excitement to something that closer resembles sorrow. He’s seen that smile on his mother’s face after every failed attempt at sobriety, and on the faces of the cashiers when Dean has to buy groceries with a handful of change – a kind of resigned acknowledgement that life is miserable and inescapable.

But it looks out of place on Cas’ features; it darkens the sunny blue of his eyes to saltwater and shrinks his shapely lips into a thin, flattened line.

Dean leans back into the padded seat, trying to avoid the scrutiny.

“You just seem really…I don’t know, sad? Even at school, you…uh, Alfie said to leave you alone,” Cas tries to explain, his voice trailing off as Dean’s eyes slide to the floor. “It’s okay if you want to go home.”

Dean doesn’t look up – he couldn’t even if he wanted to, as embarrassed as he is – but he says, “No,” followed by a desperate sounding noise and “I want to be with you.”

With his eyes trained steadily on the grout between the tiles on the floor, Dean can’t know Cas’ reaction for sure, but his own heart stutters elatedly in his ribs and he thinks Cas’ might be doing the same.

A few tables over, a girl giggles. Dean looks up at the source of the noise and sees a familiar looking blonde staring back at him. She plays a game of eye tag with him, giving him a strange expression that he can’t decipher. She’s at the table with two of her friends, a pair of girls he vaguely recognizes as well but their names are lost on him. He thinks he might know them from school.

The blonde’s ravioli is half eaten, and she plays with the remaining food as she whispers with her pals and keeps glancing back in Dean’s direction. Her attention doesn’t feel so smothering; he’s used to being stared at by girls in his class and he’s learned how to ignore it pretty easily.

Only Len, and now apparently Cas, can make him feel like a bug on a mounting board.

“Hello Lilith,” Cas says, offering the girl a slow wave and a cordial nod.

Lilith returns the gesture, biting her lower lip and pulling out her cellphone. It’s nothing like Dean’s – a touch screen with several pages of apps that she flips through before giggling again with her friends as they text each other.

“Friend of yours?” Dean grumbles, picking at the rounded corner of the linoleum table. Like Lot’s wife, Dean ought to crumble as a pillar of salt for looking where he shouldn’t. The pretty blonde has crawled under his skin and slithered her way into the back of his brain, filling him with poisonous thoughts and a sensation that feels like drowning. He doesn’t know what to call this feeling – the sudden plummeting of his heart.

Cas shrugs after taking a sip of his soda. “She’s in a few of my classes. Our families go to the same church.”

Strangely, Dean doesn’t feel any better by the admission or the uninterested way Cas regards her. He wants to curl up inside his hoodie and hide.

“Are you –” Cas says but stops, trying to hide a smile behind his hand. “She’s just a family friend.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Dean scowls. Whatever he’s feeling is so strange that he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it, he’s just so disheartened and hates this Lilith girl for reasons he can’t readily identify.

Probably her stupid pink skirt and fancy iPhone.

He looks up at Cas, still a little dumbfounded by how good his date looks, and asks, “Am I what?”

Cas shakes his head, brushing off the question. “You’re just – you’re cute, I guess, even though you still look sad.” The tint in his cheeks bleeds furiously over the rest of his face, and for a minute they both just stare at each other with an awkward, hesitant barrier between them.

Dean doesn’t think anyone’s ever called him cute before without it being an insult.

At a loss for words and public decorum, he turns to look out the window at the cars driving by and says, “You’re cute too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Eye contact was never one of Dean’s strengths, but it’s especially difficult for him now as he keeps his attention focused outside. He tries very hard not to think about the fact that he can faintly see their reflections in the window pane and that Cas is watching him as intently as ever.

But it’s true – Cas is cute. He said it out loud and he meant it. There’s a nagging worry somewhere in his mind that reminds him _cute_ isn’t a compliment, it’s what you call someone when they’re being less of man or when they try to spurn your advances.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, low and earnest. In the reflection, Dean watches as Cas reaches out slowly across the table to touch the sleeve of his hoodie. Instinct makes him want to pull away, but he can feel Cas’ hand through the soft cotton on his arm and he realizes with a small panic that he actually wants more. He wants Cas’ hand to stay there.

Out of necessity, Dean permits himself to tell a half-lie and sugarcoat what’s left of the truth. “I was fighting with Len,” he says, and it feels strangely good to say it.

“Len,” Cas repeats, and Dean doesn’t like the way the name sounds coming from Cas’ mouth. “That’s your not-dad, right?”

“Right,” Dean smiles, almost laughing. He doesn’t even know why it’s funny. “He’s kind of like my step dad, but…they’re not married. Calling him my mom’s boyfriend all the time would be weird.”

“Heh, yeah, I can see that,” Cas agrees. He’s gently rubbing the back of Dean’s arm in a way that’s settling all his nerves, calming him down.

At Lilith’s table, the waitress collects their plates and hands the sultry blonde her check. Dean tries not to be obvious as he watches them collect their things and slip light jackets on over their shoulders. The girls rise from their booth and head toward the front counter, but Lilith stops beside Cas, pausing to say goodbye.

“Castiel,” she says, and her voice is surprisingly deep, almost raspy. It belongs in an infomercial for phone sex operators. “Will I see you in church on Sunday?”

Cas nods. “Yep, I’ll be there.”

“Cool. Have fun.” Lilith smiles, but Dean senses a hidden smirk beneath it just for him. She winks, though Dean’s not entirely sure what for, before following her friends toward the front to pay their bill.

Dean glares at her back as she walks away, hoping she’ll spontaneously combust and all that straw-yellow hair of hers goes up in flames.

It doesn’t happen, of course, but he enjoys picturing it anyway.

“Do you and Len fight a lot?”

Pulled from his violent yet pleasant imaginings, Dean sighs and brings his attention back to the table, then to Cas. He’s not sure how to answer this question since they never actually fight, but Dean wouldn’t describe their relationship as one that’s enjoyable. People have to like each other to get along, but it’s not all bad. Not all the time.

“Not really,” he settles on, looking at his soda. He’s not sure if he wants to attempt to drink it. “We just don’t understand each other sometimes, I think.”

Cas looks like he’s about to say something in response to that, but then their waitress shows up with food and the subject of their conversation is forgotten. Cas pulls his hand back, leaving Dean’s arm feeling cold and lonely as the petite brunette places their plates in front of them and asks if there’s anything else she can get them. They both shake their heads and she tells them to enjoy.

Dean’s grateful for the interruption and the excuse not to talk. Len isn’t someone he wants to be talking about, not when his mouth still tastes like Len’s brand of cigarettes and when the food smells as good as it does. He’d prefer a bacon cheeseburger with a fried egg and a basket of greasy pickle chips, but the swiss cheese he’s staring at does look pretty tasty and it’s not like Dean’s ever said no to a mushroom before.

They eat in silence at first, enjoying their food and the interesting scenery that surrounds them. It’s a busy place with a myriad of customers coming in and going out, and most of the seats are filled by the time Dean is a few bites into his burger.

He’d felt okay at first, biting greedily into his food to satisfy the perpetual hunger that plagues him, but with every new customer walking in through the front doors Dean feels the pressure of their presence like a personal burden on his back.

Logically, he knows that they’re not all staring at him. Everyone came here to enjoy something from the menu and are busy with their own groups of people, but Dean can’t help the paranoia that creeps up his spine and paralyzes his limbs. His skin feels prickly and beads of sweat gather on the back of his neck. He can’t stand the way it feels there, so sticky and gross, but he’s afraid to even lift his hand to wipe it away. It might draw more attention and he already feels like the outlier here.

_One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong._

He can’t bring himself to finish his food, can’t even take another couple of bites to satisfy his need for a real dinner. He stares at his food as if the answer to life’s questions are hidden inside of it, perplexed by the rush of shame he feels for having eaten any of it at all.

“Something wrong?” Cas asks when his plate is nearly cleared.

Dean shakes his head, but the lie is obvious. He’s trembling too much to be convincing. “I’m okay.”

Cas isn’t buying it, and sets his fork down onto the table. “Are you ready to go?” Cas tries, eyes automatically scanning the room in search of the waitress.

A terrible dread swells in his stomach at the thought of going home, but it’s getting harder to breathe and he doesn’t know how much longer he can take it.

Dean takes the slowest, deepest breath he can manage, and it sounds a little wheezy as it fills his lungs but he still considers it a success. Something is happening to him, another new feeling that overwhelms him so entirely that he can do nothing more than take it as it wracks through his body.

Crowds don’t always do this to him, otherwise he’d never be able to go to school every day and focus in class. But whatever he’s feeling, whatever this strange, sudden panic is that’s stretching his ribs and squeezing his throat is so much more than he can handle.

Dean’s brain checks out for a moment, and he’s not entirely aware of what’s going on. He’s conscious on some distant level that Cas is paying the bill and leaving a tip on the table, that the waitress hovers for a bit to ask questions that Cas immediately dismisses.  He knows when Cas takes his hand and helps him out of the booth even though he’s not sure if his body is cooperating. It must be, because Dean’s able to keep his eyes on the floor as they walk out, counting the steps they take with every dull squeak of his shoes on the tile.

When the brisk air hits his face, Dean sucks in another deep breath and shudders. Cas keeps them moving until Dean is leaned up against the hard medal of Cas’ truck, cold and unrelenting against his back. It’s oddly soothing, just as much as the hand that’s now on his shoulder giving him a gentle squeeze: an anchoring touch for him to focus on.

“Better?” Cas asks, his voice still soft with worry but impressively calm.

“I think so,” Dean says, though he’s still shaking and trying to wrap his mind around what’s happening to him. “Fuck, I’m sorry Cas.”

Amazingly, Cas just laughs and keeps his hand firmly on Dean’s shoulder. “It’s okay, man. Alfie did a pretty good job of explaining it to me today. I don’t mind.”

It takes a few seconds for Dean’s brain to catch up with what Cas is talking about, and despite how much better he feels being outside he’s still panicked enough that the words have a terrifying edge to them. He looks into Cas’ eyes for a sign of disappointment, for any hint that Dean’s failed him and ruined their date, but he only sees the same mild sweetness that’s always there.

“What did Alfie say?”

“Well, you know…he just said you have anxiety attacks sometimes. Like today, we saw you in the halls in stuff – I wanted to say hi, but he told me to give you some space.”

Dean’s not sure what to make of that, but he already knew his friend had a knack for slipping in and out of Dean’s periphery as needed. It’s unsettling to hear that he’s more transparent than he realized, that Alfie knows more about Dean’s conditioned responses than he ever wanted his friend to notice.

As the world slows around him from a spin to a slow crawl, breathing comes easier and his skin fits more comfortably around his tangled insides. The nausea he’s been fighting ebbs as well and he’s left with only the same sharp pain he’s been feeling since last night.

When it starts to rain, Dean looks up at the sky into the glittering darkness and sighs.

It’s light, barely substantial enough to register on their skin, but it’s misty and refreshing and smells faintly like brown, fallen leaves. Spring is upon them and the dead greenery from last summer is erupting through the last of the snow.

Cas smiles again, his gaze unwavering. He doesn’t seem to notice the blooming scent of bark and mulch, or the steadily growing drops of rain landing in his hair.

“I’ll pay you back,” Dean blurts, reaching into his front pocket for the money Len gave him. He realizes that they left without packaging their leftovers and that Cas basically paid for an uneaten meal.

But Cas shakes his head, blinking away the droplets gathering on his eyelashes. “It’s okay, Dean. Really.”

“It’s not,” Dean insists, pulling out a twenty and shoving it in Cas’ direction.

Cas looks at the money and his smile slips, but he doesn’t take it. He’s motionless for a minute as he works through something in his head, eyeing the money but ultimately ignoring it as he says, “A few years ago I was supposed to compete in a speech competition. My teacher picked out the material, and it was this really depressing serious prose piece that I absolutely did not want to do. I ended up crying in the bathroom because I was so nervous. I had to call my parents to come pick me up and take me home.”

Dumbfounded, Dean just stares at him with his hand suspended in the air, still holding the money as the dewy rain falls slowly around them.

“Last month, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and I walked face first into a wall. Hannah and Alfie still tease me about that one.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Dean asks.

“I don’t care if you have panic attacks,” Cas says bluntly, stepping forward until there’s barely any space left between them. Dean’s hand is against Cas’ chest now, his fist clenched around the crumpled twenty dollar bill, all but forgotten. “Chances are I’m going to do something more embarrassing than you will, so when I say it’s okay or it’s not a big deal, I mean it.”

Like their moment in the laundry room, what little space exists between their bodies is heated and palpable, thick and drawing Dean in closer with the pull of a humming magnet. The hand on Cas’ chest isn’t enough, but fear and pain keeps him tacked firmly in place. They look at each other in expectation, Dean waiting for something even though he doesn’t know what.

Cas leans forward so slowly that Dean barely recognizes the movement for what it is. He watches Cas’ lips come closer, so close that he can smell the sugar from Cas’ soda on his breath.

His mouth looks soft and dry, and Dean’s so tempted to see what it’s like. He wants to know what it feels like to have full, youthful lips pressed against his own, to kiss someone he actually wants to kiss and enjoy it.

But as Cas’ lips brush feather-light over Dean’s, Dean turns his head away with a shameful gasp and closes his eyes. He tenses, humiliated, all too aware of the way his breath must smell and the lingering flavor of Len on his tongue.

He can’t kiss Cas yet, not like this, no matter how badly he wants it.

“See?” Cas says, all trace of his smile gone. “Super embarrassing.” He steps away from Dean quickly, making no attempt to take the money as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

Dean doesn’t move from his place against the truck until he hears Cas walk around to the front, opening his door and getting in behind the wheel.

When Dean opens his eyes again, he sees that the rain picked up pace but the droplets are still small and nearly weightless, leaving only a thin film of moisture on his hoodie and over his hands. He’s mortified, but not as much as he would be if Cas had kissed him and detected the menthol, if Cas had questioned why Dean’s mouth tasted like ashes or if he wanted more than Dean was willing to offer.

He won’t blame Cas if he doesn’t want to see him again. Dean’s not familiar with how this stuff works, but he knows better than to reject someone and hope to see them again.

When Dean climbs into the passenger seat, he’s trying hard not to nervously bite the inside of his cheek like he usually does and almost bites his tongue instead.

“I’ll take you home,” Cas says, withdrawn and a little lifeless as he turns the key.

This would be the perfect way to let things end. Dean could go home and tell Len the news, let him know that he let Cas down easy and that they won’t be seeing each other anymore. Len would ruffle his hair or lick a stripe over the back of his neck, and though Dean would hate himself and desperately wish things could be different, life would go back to normal. No more strange, unexpected panic attacks, and no almost-kisses in the rain outside of nice restaurants.

No more Cas.

Dean stuffs the money back into his hoodie and clutches at Cas’ arm, feeling stupid and excited but mostly scared as he says, “I really like you.”

Cas’ eyes widen in surprise, luminous in the shadowed cabin of his weirdly small truck. “You do?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just – I’ve never done this before, and today was…today was just a bad day.”

Cas smiles so hard that it breaks into an unexpected laugh. “Yeah, it was. I’ve never done this before either.”

Dean watches as the tension melts from Cas’ frame, pushing Len out of his mind with the promise that he’ll deal with the fallout later when it comes. Seeing Cas like this, so blissful, and feeling the same thing reflected within himself is the greatest of the new things he’s felt today; the most welcome. It’s worth it.

He leans over the middle seat, bravely and with careful hands, and pulls Cas into a hug.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to do the DCBB this year, but plans changed. Back to working on my fics! 
> 
> Unbeta'd. Hopefully it's not too bad.

Dean’s in another bad mood, all panicky-pissed and red-faced but he’s not sure why. He can feel the fury simmering in some unknown place inside him, waiting, popping and hissing like grease in a frying pan. God, he wants to hit something. Wants to lay someone out.

It’s like a second wave of puberty came to further his incurable awkwardness. He’s already the weirdo, the sad fucking loser who eats and works by himself, the kid with the drunk mom from a broken home. Since the date, Dean’s been white-knuckling every surface and gritting his teeth, plucking threads from the carpet, even pinching his own thighs to help ease some of the tension.

It’s like his body can’t handle all the good, allergic to the simple purity of it. Being with Cas had been so strange, so uncomfortable, and yet there were moments that had Dean soaring high and weightless above the muddy weight of his troubles. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him, why he gets so down and darkly violent, dancing on the edge of some emotion he can’t define.

The weekend had been long and miserable, one endless day after the other, and Dean had punched his wall more than once. Not hard enough to hurt the wall or transfer some of the suspended anger, but enough to bruise his knuckles and his ego, to forfeit a future career in boxing. Len didn’t bother him and Dean mostly kept to himself, fantasizing about death and destruction in vague, theoretical terms. It isn’t his favorite way to pass the time, but it worked. He made it to Monday and to his locker and he considers that a success.

He hangs his backpack up on the little hook and unzips it, pulling out the textbook he needs for the first class of the day and setting it by his feet. He thinks about ripping the book in half or setting it on fire, thinks about kicking through the back wall of his locker until it’s well dented and busted up. He just wants to hurt something and feel it give beneath his pressure, wants it to fold under his strength. Just one thing. That’s all.

Something touches him, and at first Dean tries to ignore it because he’s used to the bustling throng of students walking through the hallways, all elbows and bony parts. But that something feels like a hand, warm and wide, settling over his shoulder and getting tighter.

He whirls, cowering, fighting off instinct long enough to look up and lock eyes with the person touching him. It’s Cas, of course it’s Cas, and he’s smiling and leaning against the locker beside Dean’s. His eyes widen when he takes in Dean’s response, but otherwise he looks the same, relaxed and confident, almost grateful.

“Morning,” Cas says, and Dean’s filled with enough bitterness that he wants to say yes, it is, you should be a detective. Instead he says nothing, because that sour pit in his stomach isn’t for Cas.

Dean finishes gathering his books, tucking them under one arm, and closes the locker. His free hand is swept up immediately by Cas’, so smoothly that it takes him a moment to realize that it’s happening, their fingers twining in a comfortable hold.

To his shame, Dean looks down at their hands and gulps, petrified.

They’re holding hands. In public. Where other people can see. It’s like lowering the drawbridge to let the invaders in after spending all those years digging a goddamn moat.

“Is this okay?” Cas asks, voice hushed and intimate, and Dean doesn’t know how to answer. It’s okay because he knows he wants this and it feels really nice, like being with Cas always does. But people are watching, and people are cruel.

Dean steps in closer, leaning his head on Cas’ shoulder so lightly that the collar of his shirt tickles Dean’s cheek. Cas smells sweet, like he’s been sucking on candy, and their palms are sweaty but somehow that feels good too. Dean nods, the red-faced anger melting into pink-faced embarrassment, and squeezes tighter.

It’s still early, maybe twenty minutes before the first bell rings, so they walk through the halls in search of Alfie to chat and hang out. It’s not a completely foreign concept, the whole hanging out thing, but the idea of it still scares him enough that he’s almost forgotten that he’s walking around the school, hand in hand with a senior, and that the students passing by have noticed.

Alfie’s leaning against the glass wall of the upper hallway, the one that hangs artfully over the commons like a fish bowl, talking with a couple of his friends and Hannah, who is playing on her phone. They look up when Cas greets them, saying their hellos, and Alfie nudges Dean in their own quiet form of acknowledgement.

“Hey lovebirds,” Hannah says, voice lilted, a ridiculous grin on her face.

“Shut it, Hannah,” Cas replies, but he’s smiling as well and his sister seems to take it as a compliment.

Alfie gives Dean a smile too, but it’s different than the ones being exchanged by the twins. It’s gentler, like a secret, and it makes Dean feel unobtrusively reassured. Though he barely noticed it before, Dean has a true friend. Alfie has been a silent support beam for years and Dean has no idea how to thank him for it, if he ever really can.

So Dean does what everyone else is doing. He smiles.

They talk for a few minutes, and it’s so natural and casual for them that Dean can’t help but sink into the mold. He actually laughs from deep in his lungs, the dusty, unused part of his body that rattles when he finds it, and he wonders if this is what it’s like to be a real boy, no strings.

“You guys are so cute, I can hardly stand it.” Hannah playfully pokes at Cas’ chest, making moon-eyes at him.

Alfie rolls his eyes. “Pfft, you didn’t say that about me and Nicole.”

“That’s because she was a bitch, and I knew you could do better.”

“She’s the one who dumped me!” Alfie fake whines, and Dean tries to remember his friend dating a girl named Nicole, but nothing comes to mind. He loosely recalls a brunette that tagged along on his heels, eyes so dark they looked beetle black and gave Dean the creeps.

“And look how quickly you got over it,” Hannah points out, a knowing smirk on her face. She has that older sibling vibe that makes her seem trustworthy, but the cocky glint in her eye gives her away. “One day you’ll hook up with your dream girl, kiddo. If Cas can do it, anyone can.”

“Hey!” Cas protests, blushing, turning his face subtly away from Dean in an effort to hide it.

“Yeah, well Cas has the unfair advantage of having me as a brother, but I gotta somehow get Anna to notice me without any help,” Alfie complains as he shifts his weight, looking pointedly at his sister.

Dean ignores the other stuff they were saying; he doesn’t want to think about it too hard or question it, so he says, “Anna Milton?”

Alfie nods. “Girl of my fucking dreams, dude.”

Everyone knows her. It would be impossible not to at this school, even for people as closed off and secluded as Dean. She’s the effortlessly cool girl with money and loud red hair that demands attention, dresses like sex on a stick and wears skirts even when it’s below zero. She’s too much of a cliché for Dean, like one of those O-faced girls on television who fucks and sucks and goes home to kiss her momma with that mouth.

“Seriously?” Dean asks, because he genuinely can’t tell.

“You guys don’t know her,” Alfie defends, getting irritated. “She’s not like everyone says.”

Dean wonders if that’s true. It probably is, knowing Alfie. He sees the good in everyone in the same way Dean finds the bad; by default, from the heart.

A senior, some pale brunette that the others recognize, approaches their group and claps Cas on the back of his neck. “Nice!” He says, getting an eyeful of Dean and their entwined hands. “Nice work.”

“What?” Cas asks, looking genuinely confused.

“Screw off, Jack,” Alfie says.

“Come on guys, it’s cool! Everyone’s talking about it,” Jack leers, and suddenly Dean doesn’t feel like hanging out anymore. He lifts an eyebrow toward Cas. “You did the impossible, man. Who knew?”

When Alfie steps forward, it’s not confrontational. He moves slowly but purposefully, and Dean finds himself mostly hidden behind the barrier of Alfie’s back. “Yeah yeah, the school’s all atwitter. See you later, okay?”

Jack, picking up on the delicate hint that he’s being dismissed, huffs in response as he steps away. He winks at Dean when he turns his head to check him out, blue eyes curious and assessing, and Dean’s right back to feeling like he’s being toyed with beneath a microscope.

“Who was that?” Dean asks, leaning into Cas’ body. He tries to move so that it doesn’t look like he’s seeking comfort.

“Just a guy in my class. Goes to our church, too. He’s kind of a dick,” Cas explains.

That ugly feeling prickles low in Dean’s gut again. “You know a lot of people from church.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Hannah offers with another smile, unfazed.

The concept is foreign and doesn’t quite fit in the shape of his head, but Dean wants to listen, wants to forget that Lilian and Jack are people who exist. But the idea that he can hate two people, without fully understanding the reasons, sort of scares him. He wonders what kind of person that makes him.

The morning bell rings, and his first taste of untethered freedom is over.

  ҉     ҉     ҉

Dean walked with Alfie to their math class, and he experienced another first. Not being in the classroom before the bell meant a limited selection of seats to pick from, and it meant not getting to sit right next to his friend. He chose a desk beside a blonde girl that didn’t usually make too much noise, and Alfie sat in front of him.

The first half of the class went by quickly. He found comfort in the lines and numbers being written on the board, from the relative silence in the focused classroom. Dean is one of the few people the teacher never calls on, simply because Mr. Buckley knows this is an easy subject for him, so he lets his mind roam.

Dean listens to the lecture but only hears the words as though they’re coming from another room, a secondary sound. His eyes follow the shapes and formulas scribbled in blue marker but sees Lilith’s face in them, sees Jack’s smirk. Cas’ lips are there too, his hands, but the image is stained red and dark, makes him feel angry and sick. He doesn’t know what that means.

When the teacher finishes, the sound of the other students talking amongst each other is louder than his thoughts and brings him back to the room, to the assignment. They’re supposed to work independently but the rule isn’t enforced, and nearly everyone takes advantage of it. Even Alfie is quietly discussing the first question with a boy who has no idea what he’s doing.

Dean finishes the first three questions before he hears, “Hey. Dean.”

It’s the blonde beside him. The girl who’s supposed to be quiet. He thinks her name is Stephanie. “Yeah?”

He turns to look at her, an action he belatedly realizes is new. Their eyes meet and the sensation is strange; she blushes and bites her lip, swallows almost comically they do in the movies when someone is nervous. Does does another new thing, too. He smiles and waits for her speak.

After a moment of what looks like an internal debate, she finally talks. “Is it true?”

Dean glances up at the board to inspect the numbers, not entirely sure if the posed equation is a riddle of somekind, but she clears her throat and shakes her head. “No, I mean, um…you and Castiel. Are you guys dating?”

Dean shrinks back into his chair, averting his eyes from the girl and the board, looking straight down at his worksheet and nothing else. He doesn’t know what to say.

_Yes_. The word echoes in his head until he hears it in the blood pounding through his veins. His tongue is tied and he can’t seem to answer. His skin prickles on his neck and he can feel the familiar rush of blood to his face. Not yet giving him away, but threatening to.

What does she care? It’s not her business. Dean doesn’t answer.

“Wow,” she says, and Dean tries to ignore her through her wheedling insistence. “You’re – I never guessed, that, damn – you’ve been gay this whole time?”

Is it sad that his first thought was, _what whole time_? How long has his sexuality been in question? Have they been classmates for far longer than Dean realized?

In front of him, Alfie squirms a little in his seat. He looks back at the girl, at Stephanie, but his face is unreadable. He looks at Dean then, his face still a blank mask, and lifts a single eyebrow. Dean doesn’t know what that means either. He doesn’t know what any of these silent conversations mean anymore.

Stephanie is relentless. “Is that why you’ve, uh…never dated anyone or anything?”

Alfie tags in and offers Dean a little relief, though his true intention surely was to rescue his brother’s good name. Dean doesn’t really have a virtue or a reputation to protect. “What do you care?”

“Ha. So it'strue then, isn’t it? Never saw _that_ coming.” Stephanie huffs and scowls, and the anger on her face seems hard to decipher.

“What do you mean?” Dean speaks up for the time, the simmering anger rolling to another boil. He wishes he understood himself enough to know why her catty, snide remarks are bothering him so much, or why he wants to punch her too.

He never cared enough about people to want to hurt them before. God, he doesn’t even know if he’s thinking her name right. Could be Stella, or Staci. Might not even start with an S.

Stephanie glances up at the clock and cradles her books in her arms twenty minutes too early. “If you have to be gay or whatever, why that guy? It’s like…you’re not even dating someone hot.”

Alfie glares at the girl, but she doesn’t notice. Dean expects him to pipe up and tell her where she can shove her impetuous thoughts, but he says nothing. Instead, Alfie directs this gaze to Dean and waits.

It’s what Sam does; his little brother looks at him, waiting, expectant, as though Dean’s about to do something courageous and unsheathe a sword and reveal that all his outward cowardice is just a farce, just a way to lure the enemy in closer.

He’s never been the hero people have wanted him to be. He lets Sam down time and time again. He takes what Len gives him by lowering the shield and keeping the sword at rest.

But this Stephanie girl isn’t Len. She can’t hurt Dean, not with anything more than words, and Dean’s probably heard a lot worse than anything her turtle-ish lips can spit at him.

“He’s a lot hotter than you are,” Dean says, his ribs a trembling fortress around his heart. She gapes at him, face paling. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying more, from calling her a hideous mockery of the female form, plain and painfully average in every way, unremarkable.

What’s left of his conscious is pinching him to stop, reminding him that she doesn’t deserve it. She’s imperfect. Dean’s imperfect. The whole world is a fucked up mess and a tangle of lives that intersect for a blink of a moment before speeding off in their own direction. She’s only a blink on Dean’s timeline. He doesn’t even know her name. He can’t treat her that way.

Alfie seems impressed, though. He’s looking at Dean like he’s passed a test. Alfie is a good person, Dean knows this. He’s been on the receiving end of Alfie’s generosity for longer than he cares to admit. Yet it seems that even this deeply virtuous person isn’t immune to the pack mentality. Family is important to him. Dean is slowly becoming part of that family.

And he wants that. He really does.

  ҉     ҉     ҉    

Mary stands in the window, still and motionless as the sheers that frame her sun-glinted silhouette. Dean wasn’t expecting her to be home, but he’s glad she is. He misses her.

She greets him at the door when he enters, dropping his backpack on the dining chair and kicking off his shoes. She’s smiling and doesn’t smell like wine when she hugs and kisses him, but the burning cigarette in her hand gives him a slight cough. She waves at the air to disperse the smoke. It doesn’t work.

“Hi honey,” she says, voice unexpectedly steady. Dean thinks she sounds like a bird, a little high pitched and teetering on the edge of something sharp. She’s dancing through the kitchen with the grace and speed of someone trying to avoid the ringing of their thoughts.

“Hey Ma,” Dean starts, looking around the empty space of the apartment. “Sam home?”

A tear springs to Mary’s eye. Dean’s gut sinks. “He’s – well, you know how your brother can be. Always pushing Leonard’s buttons.”

It doesn’t answer Dean’s question. His stomach feels full of lead and grime when he asks, “What happened?”

Mary stops, leaning her weight against the face of the stove, hands gripping the surface. Her head bows and her shoulders shudder. “It’s not his fault, Dean.”

“What isn’t?” Dean steps closer, heart _thump thump thumping_ just outside of his chest. “Who’s fault?”

Mary doesn’t look at him. “Sam came home sick. He was being so…you know, himself. Glaring, stomping, so much anger in him – like John used to get sometimes. Leonard was in a bad mood, too. The whole thing just got blown out of proportion. Sam will be back, honey, don’t worry. But…Leonard won’t. We’re done. It’s over.”

Dean stares breathlessly, unbelievingly. He tries to count the number of times he’s heard this, how many hundreds of nights Len’s been kicked out or left on his own, promising not to come back, telling the Winchesters to fuck off and that they’ll never find anyone as good as him. He always comes back, though. Always.

It’s mimicry at best, a twinge of sympathy for his mother that has Dean tearing up too as he pulls her into a hug.

“It’s okay mom,” he says, a phrase well practiced. “I love you.”

Mary hiccups through a bout of tears. She smells like the color purple, if such a scent were a possible. It’s the hue he sees when he holds her like this, when he smells the deep florid hint of her perfume, the richness of the ashes on her fingertips, even the yawning hole in her heart that she fills with the dark pinks and pale roses of her wine. It’s a color that shadows and tints the memories of his childhood, of when he was still young enough to crawl between her violet sheets after another nightmare.

The softness of her hair falls down over his shoulders as she kisses the top of his head. “I’m so sorry, baby. I know you and Leonard were close.”

Dean shivers in her embrace, unable to speak.

“I’m sure Sam will be back tomorrow when he calms down,” she reassures him again, her hand brushing over the back of his neck. It makes him twitch and flinch away, but she doesn’t notice. “I hope you don’t mind it’s just you and me tonight.”

“Actually, Mom, that sounds pretty nice,” Dean says, nodding. He wipes at his eyes and turns away. “You get the movie, I’ll get the popcorn?”

“Sure, baby.” Mary drags her hands down the front of her blouse, takes a deep breath, and leaves the kitchen.

Dean isn’t entirely convinced that Sam will be back, at least not tomorrow. He’s got his friends and places where he can stay as long as he likes, a privilege he’s never let go to waste, but he knows Len will be back before Sam will. He knows it just like he knows the sun will rise in the morning and that the Earth will keep spinning along on its orbit. Len always comes back, and Mary never fails for forgive him and welcome him back in. 

But tonight he can enjoy a little time with his mom, just the two of them.

She picks out a romantic comedy, something easy on their hearts and minds that they won’t have to focus on too deeply. She calls them pillows for the soul, those movies. Gives a person a chance to rest and just feel good for a while. 

Halfway through the movie, Mary leans over and rests her head on Dean’s shoulder. It’s strange, but not unwelcome. “So tell me about Castiel. What’s he like?”

Dean laughs – a small one, barely enough to shake his mother’s head. “He’s really nice, mom.”

“Yeah? He treating my baby boy right?” 

Dean wants to argue that he’s not a baby, but the point, along with the urge, deflates from the depth of her sincerity. It kind of feels good to be called her baby. “Yeah. Well you know, it’s still, uh…I’m not really sure what we are, to be honest.”

Mary nods, which turns out to be a strange motion from her position and the tilt of her head. “You’re young, sweetie. There’s no rush to define anything. Your father and I – we dated a bit before we were actually an item. He took me for a milkshake and couldn’t take his eyes off me.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” she swoons, words slowing and getting breathier. She’s falling asleep. “I wish he could see you now, how much you’ve grown. He’d know how to deal with Sam, too.”

Dean suspects, a little shamefully, that if John never died then Sam wouldn’t be the way he is. Sammy would just be Sammy, without the raw edges dragged through the muck and bitterness, growing vines and sprouting leaves around his spine. He wonders what that Sam would have been like. What he would have grown up to be.

But he doesn’t bother having those daydreams about himself. Dean doesn’t think he would have amounted to much anyway, regardless of whether or not John was in the picture. Regardless of Len. Dean doesn’t even have a spine for the weeds of bitterness to grown on. Just that over-fed kiln burning through the spaces John left behind.

Mary snores, so Dean gently adjusts her against the couch and slips away, leaving the movie playing and the bowl of half-eaten popcorn on the coffee table.

He goes to his room, slips out of his clothes, and pulls his blanket up over his barely clothed body. It’s an indulgence to go to bed like this without the extra layers of clothes and the sweaty fear that he won’t get to sleep through the night. 

He dreams of Mary, an apron tied around her waist, a slice of hot apple pie with rising steam curling through the air in front of his much younger, more innocent face.

   ҉     ҉     ҉    

The second date goes better than the first.

All week, every day had been the same: Cas taking Dean’s hand in the hallway, walking him to class, smiling at him, and Dean genuinely surprised at every touch, every wink. People stared and whispered, but it was easy to tune them out. He could dissociate from them well enough before, and this is no different. They’re just background noises, nothing else.

Some things are different, though, like hanging out with the Edlund kids in the hallway and getting to know Hannah, learning more about the incurable crush Alfie has on Anna, laughing at their jokes and even cracking a pun or two of his own. He feels a little more real every day, a little more human, and the dusky noises in the back of his mind are dulled to a whispering hum.

So when Cas had asked him at the end of the week if he’d please go with him to a movie, Dean said yes.

Cas hadn’t tried to touch him. Even in the dimly lit theater, surrounded by obnoxiously loud speakers, the most Cas ever did was lean over long enough to comment on something about the plot, or make a joke about the obvious flaws and bad acting. Dean had to clasp his hands over his mouth to keep from giggling too loudly.

But now, with the movie over and the ice melted in their half-empty sodas, sitting in Cas’ truck, Dean feels relaxed. Not just happy to be away from home, not just smiling or joking because he’s parroting and trying to fit in, but genuinely at ease in Cas’ company. Beneath the parking lot spot lights with the radio humming, car engines starting nearby, a girl shrieking in pleasure when her boyfriend scoops her up and tosses her over his shoulder, Dean can breathe. He can smile.

“I don’t want to go home,” Dean admits as Cas starts his truck. Cas idles for a moment before turning to look at Dean.

It’s more than a look: a quiet assessment that leaves Cas more confused than Dean thinks he’s ever seen him. It’s like he’s trying to read scripture from a grain of rice, but the intensity doesn’t feel so heavy, doesn’t make Dean recoil or look away.

“What do you want to do?”

Cas doesn’t have a curfew. His parents believe that freedom and flexibility will best prepare him for when he goes to college next year, and the result is him getting to do whatever he wants with very few limitations imposed on him. As long as he keeps his grades up, he could probably join a gang or get tattoos all over his face.

But he’d never had the opportunity or inclination to make the most of his privileges until now, so Cas’ eyes light up and his lips twitch at Dean’s admission. He waits patiently for a response.

Len was gone when Dean asked his mother for permission to go, so he technically doesn’t have a curfew tonight either. Mary’s a bit too distracted and unfocused to set such rules in place, his only instruction to have as much fun as a boy his age should be having. Which, according to his hopelessly romantic mother, is quite a bit.

“Anything,” Dean says, then adds, “Anywhere.”

Cas taps his hands on the steering wheel, deep in thought. He stares out at the thinning rows of cars, cleaning his teeth with a broad tongue. It shouldn’t be so erotic, but it warms the want in Dean’s groin too fast for him to stop it.

 “I have an idea.” Cas blushes faintly, and Dean has to hold a steady breath to keep from reading into the rush of blood too deeply.

They drive through town slowly, no rush to make it to their mystery destination, so Dean lets his eyes linger on the driver. He hates that doing so makes him feel brave, like he had to work up to the ability just to look at someone. But those thoughts are easily pushed aside when the subject is Cas, when the person he’s looking at doesn’t just make him feel brave, but kind of special. Like their time together is sacred. He doesn’t know how to quantify it, won’t bother with trying to define it. It just makes the hatred he has for himself simpler to ignore.

The truck doesn’t stop until they’re somewhere nestled between a grove of trees, a campsite of sorts meant for one car and one camper by the looks of it. There’s a firepit dug into the ground and walled with bricks, a few lumpy logs spread out like theater seating around it. It’s not much, and the bugs are thick at night and hungry, buzzing and chirping, but it’s otherwise nice and quiet.

Dean can smell the earth here. The damp soil turned over from digging and hauling branches to be burned, the mist that lingers around the tops of the treelines and  dripping down from the fat greening leaves. Spring is strong here, crawling with the hopeful buds of flowers yet to bloom. No cell phone reception either, Dean sees, when he checks his phone to see the time. Just after eleven.

“This is where my dad comes when he wants to work on his stories,” Cas explains, getting out from behind the wheel and pulling himself up into the back of the truck. Dean can’t help but quiver when he sees the muscles of Cas’ arms, well fed and growing into manhood. Dean’s filled out some, but not much. 

In the truck bed, Cas unstraps and rolls out a couple sleeping bags, unzipping them and laying them out like blankets rather than insulated cocoons. Dean doesn’t ask why they were already in the truck.

This time Dean shivers from the cold, and from the not-so-vague suggestion that they’re meant to lay back there, together, in a way that could lead to things Dean’s not ready for. Things Cas wouldn’t want if he knew the truth.

“Planning a slumber party?” Dean jokes, holding himself a little tighter than before. The ease is starting to slip away as he feels his muscles tighten and clench.

Cas points up into the sky, traces a constellation with his finger. “The stars are really nice. I figured we could just hang out here, instead of, I dunno – going somewhere else?”

Dean is forced to ask himself the question of whether or not he trusts Cas. A difficult task when he knows he doesn’t even trust himself.

Worse is the acknowledgement that trust means nothing. Trust can be broken. Trust doesn’t even have to exist in order for people to get married or have sex or make babies.

Though Dean doesn’t completely trust Cas, not yet, he doesn’t think Cas will hurt him, either. Won’t flay Dean open and bury himself inside like Dean’s just a warming station for guys who get a little too cold sometimes.

He jumps out of the truck and Cas helps pull him into the back, and together they settle beneath the top sleeping bag and stare upward at the sky.

“I’m sorry about last time,” Cas says, voice earnest.

Dean remembers their almost-kiss, the one he turned away from. “No, it’s – I’m the one who should be sorry,” he says, barely more than a whisper. He knows what would have happened if Dean were someone else, if he were a person more worthy of attention from a guy like Cas. They would have kissed; they would have done more, maybe. Who knows.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I came on too strong. I’ve just – God, I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, and I just, uh, lost myself for a second.”

Guilt and nausea and pride tangle in the pit of Dean’s stomach, warring over which overwhelming sensation should spring to the surface first. He remembers what Len used to say to him, long before it turned into the suffocating mess it has become, when he’d sweeten Dean’s ears with praise and silly compliments that left him feeling funny and excited by day’s end. Back when Len would tell him how cute he was, how he just wanted to eat Dean up, how his lips always looked so pink and kissable.

He likes it better coming from Cas; the honest, humiliated way it sounds as though he’s making a confession and fears the consequences, rather than Len’s clever way of crawling toward ownership. It makes Dean want to hear more.

“You have?” Dean keeps his eyes focused upward, but his arms curl around his chest.

“Well, yeah,” Cas laughs, turning on his side to face Dean. “I thought that was kind of obvious.”

Still staring at the sky, afraid to look elsewhere, Dean pinches himself beneath the sweater, quietly. “Is that all you want to do to me?”

Both of them go still, and Dean thinks he may start to cry, or panic. He doesn’t know why he said it. He doesn’t know what the question is supposed to mean. His heart is traitorously fearful yet confusingly excited at the prospect of more, and the skin between his fingers aches and purples under the pressure. He pinches himself harder like the pain can turn back the clock and erase the words.

Cas squirms, avoids the question for a moment while he flattens the creases of the sleeping back with one hand. “Might be easier to just start with a kiss,” he says, smiling, but the grin is a nervous one at best. Dean can tell he’s expecting rejection.

“I don’t know if I can.”

Cas shrugs in a strangely encouragingly way. “I don’t know if I can, either. It doesn’t have to be perfect, you know. That’s what practice is for. The first kiss doesn’t have to be the best.”

The first kiss. Right. Cas has never kissed anyone before.

Dean’s had innumerable kisses, secret ones, ones that all felt and tasted the same. Made him not want to kiss anyone else so long as he could help it. One violator in his mouth was enough.

When Dean turns to look at Cas, finally, he does something on impulse. It just happens before he’s even fully aware of it, speaking to Cas in a way that doesn’t use words, his favorite line of defense.

He’s on top of Cas, pressing their mouths together, warm and a little wet from when Cas had been licking his lips. Cas sucks in a shocked, excited breath, lips parting, his face heartbreakingly open as Dean slowly slides his tongue in and seals them together. He slips a hand through Cas’ hair, gentle but not cautious, persuading Cas to do the same with a vulnerable moan. Then there’s a hand in Dean’s hair too, a little lost and faltering but there nonetheless, hesitantly pulling Dean in closer until their bodies are smooth and seamless together.

Dean goes slow, coaxing Cas to open wider and give in to Dean’s tender commands. It’s so much better than the rage he’d felt before, when he wanted to break something and watch it fall apart, to see something be crushed beneath his heel, weak. Having Cas melt under him, bending to his whim, is the only kind of power Dean ever wants to feel.

He keeps their mouths together as he lets his hand wander further down, fingers dragging over Cas’ chest, catching on Cas’ belt and latching there. He feels Cas’ hips buck up in response, a needy moan pushed into the kiss, and Dean moans back.

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears and feel the burning heat of Cas’ skin against his palm. Distantly Dean is aware that he should feel sickened by this, that the thrum of his heartbeat should quicken and drown his ears in panic, but instead he feels content, in control. Cas’ hand is low on Dean’s back, inching upward, pushing Dean’s shirt up with delicate ease, and the cool air prickles his skin where Cas’ warm hand isn’t there to cover it.

Through the rough material of their jeans, Dean can feel Cas’ growing need as his hips keep pushing upward, begging for friction. Dean wants this to be okay, wants to make Cas feel good, but his own body isn’t responding in the same way. He’s still soft and unresponsive there, and soon Cas will notice and ask questions, or blame Dean for starting this mess and not giving him the grand finish he deserves.

He pulls their lips apart first, catching his breath, and rolls over onto his back away from Cas. He covers his eyes with his arm, trembling, the anger leaving his lungs like swirls of dust with every exhale. Dean wasn’t expecting some magical kiss to cure him, to make him want all the things a regular kid should want, but it was still so much more than he ever thought it could be. It was the greatest kiss of his life.

“Wow,” Cas says, chest rising and falling to match his heavy breaths, one hand dropping to adjust himself where the bulge is unmistakable. Dean pretends not to notice, keeping his eyes under the shield of his arm. “That was awesome.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, trying to mask to hopefulness in his voice.   

“Definitely.” Cas rolls over to align himself with Dean, and at first Dean flinches and prepares to turn away, but Cas does nothing more than hold him and rest his head on Dean’s shoulder.

It’s so sweet it hurts. Makes him ache in the hollow part of him that fatalistically gave up years ago.

He stares up at the stars and tries to count them, distracting himself; anything to keep from acknowledging the single tear trailing sluggishly down the side of his face.

  ҉     ҉     ҉     

Mary’s car is gone, again. Sam’s bedroom window is dark. Len’s truck is in the driveway.

Dean says goodbye to Cas, accepting another quick kiss before hopping out of the truck and going inside.

If Sam is home, then he’s asleep – or pretending to be, at least. There’s not even a faint glow from one of his flashlights coming through his window at the end of the building. He’s probably still pissed, or maybe he left again when he realized Len had come back, too.

Dean shakes his head. Len being gone didn’t last very long this time, did it? And course his mother isn’t home to make excuses or explain his presence. She’s left Dean to bridge the gap himself.

His lips are still buzzing when he walks in through the door and takes off his shoes. Best case scenario, Len is passed out already in front of an old western, or maybe he’ll give Dean the infamous cold shoulder that somehow hurts impossibly worse than when Len’s in Dean’s face, demanding and taking. He doesn’t feel like dealing with either, of course, but that’s Dean’s life. An endless series of dire situations in which he has no choice, no escape.

Len is neither drunk nor watching television. He rises from the couch when he hears Dean enter and slowly makes his way into the kitchen where Dean stands at the fridge, looking for something to drink. When Dean turns to look at him, he feels a little rebellious but keeps it to himself. Len has his best apology face on and Dean knows he’s about to lay it on thick. Make all kinds of promises that mean nothing and retell the same old stories about his drunken, worthless Pa.

“Hey,” Len says as Dean pulls a water bottle out of the fridge. “I’m back.”

Dean shrugs. “I noticed.”

Len creeps closer, only a couple steps, one hand dragging along the counter. “I’m sorry. You know I hate fighting with your brother.”

It took years for Dean to notice that Len never referred to Sam as his son, or even a step-son. He was always Mary’s youngest boy or Dean’s brother. But he had no problem calling Dean his kid, his oldest, his big boy, like they were terms of endearment or lovely pet names to be cherished.

Dean shrugs again, but says nothing.

“Did you miss me?”

Len’s body heat is like a furnace, radiating against Dean’s skin where he’s suddenly towering, breathing hot and heavy against his neck. Dean nearly chokes on his water as he tries to screw the cap back on, but fumbles.

Len puts his hands around Dean’s and helps him.

“No,” Dean says. He doesn’t even care about the consequences.

“No?” Len mocks, voice still soft and teasing. “Not even a little bit?”

The water bottle drops out of Dean’s hands and thuds to the floor, the plastic denting and making that awful snapping sound when it hits. It’s the same sound the tightly wound barrier in Dean’s chest makes when it breaks the dam and floods, when he whirls and shoves Len as hard and angrily and he can, back pressed against the bruising handles of the fridge. “Don’t touch me!”

Len staggers a few steps until he reclaims his balance. He stares at Dean, cool and unflappable, and Dean knows very quickly that he’s done a bad thing. He’s made the wrong choice.

Mary’s headlights flash in the driveway as she pulls up, shining yellow through the curtains. She’ll be inside in a minute.

Len straightens, rubs a hand over his chest where Dean shoved him. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Dean nods and picks the water bottle up off the floor. The water sloshes around inside of it, giving away how badly Dean is shaking, which only broadens the smile on Len’s face.

Mary comes in the door and kisses Len on the cheek. Len kisses her back.

Dean forgets how to breathe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are probably a lot of typos. Sorry :(

Dean counts as he holds his breath.

He wills his heart to slow. Begs it to stop beating so painfully fast. Logically he knows he’s fine, and yet his hands are trembling and he can’t satisfy his lungs with enough air. Bobby told him to take a deep breath and hold it in for ten seconds, twenty if he’s able. It’s not helping.

It’s cold, but Bobby is merciful and gave Dean the keys to the Impala so he could start it and keep warm. Dad’s old mix tapes are dumped and scattered on the front seat and Moody Blues warps static from the dying speakers. He concentrates on the numbers like sheep jumping through his head but none of it works.

_You owe me._

Dean swallows. He can still feel Len’s calloused hands around his neck. He pulls his sweater tighter around his body and his wrist throbs with a phantom ache. The music is loud and he tries to hum along, but all he can hear is that dark, needy voice in his ear.

_Ungrateful little bitch._

There are memories in this car; good ones of time spent with his mother in that first barbed year after Dad died. The last year he remembers her sober. Mostly flitting images of tree-lined highways and drive-through dinners, but there had been a family photo tacked to the dashboard and a small glass of clipped flowers in the cup holder. Mary tried to make the Impala a second home after the real one burned down.

It was a good year despite all of the bad. His mom made sure of that.

He thinks of those days, when Sam was just a rugrat and Dean still saw him as toy: his own pocket-sized little brother with gummy smiles and high pitched squeals of laughter. He tries to weigh himself down with those memories, make them his anchor.

_Think you can shut me out, Ice Princess?_

Dean touches his swollen lip with shaking fingers. It’s not as bad as it was. He’s fine. He’s going to be okay.

Two weeks. Len hadn’t touched him or even looked in his direction for two weeks after Dean made the mistake of shoving him away. Just long enough for him to make a second, worse mistake of thinking he’d escaped retribution. That maybe Len was getting over it and he’d leave Dean alone.

Len didn’t fuck him. He wants to be grateful for that, but his punishment felt so much worse. Sex he understands. Sex he can endure. And when Len had gripped Dean’s throat and bitten his lower lip, he was certain that was the direction they were headed. But then Dean’s lip started to bleed and something inside Len had snapped.

His head still hurts where Len threw him into the wall.

Dean still doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s never been hurt in that way before. Len had been killing him softly with gentle touches and sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. Dean’s heart is half full of apologies and promises from that man, but when Len was through him this morning there wasn’t a single utterance of sympathy.

_Get out of here before I fucking kill you._

There’s a knock on the window. Dean remains as still as he can; his old friend nausea is pooling in the pit of his stomach and he doesn’t want to be bothered.

The door opens anyway.

Sam makes quick work of tossing the tapes onto the other seat before taking his place behind the wheel, turning up the heat and down the music. “Bobby wants to know if you’re hungry.”

“You mean Bobby wanted you to check up on me. I’m fine.” But Dean’s voice betrays him, rough and muted from being choked.

Sam sighs, unconvinced. “He still wants to know if you’re hungry. I think he’s making burgers.”

Dean tucks his knees up into his chest. “No.”

The silence stretches between them like taffy, thick and slow. He can tell Sam is gearing up for another one of this attempts at a heartfelt talk by the way he’s shifting uncomfortably the seat. Dean just wants to lay here, accompanied by the ghost of memories past, and no one else.

He hates lying, and the longer Sam stays the more likely he’s going to have to do that.

When Sam finally speaks up, his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Did you tell Cas what happened?”

Dean glares into the cushion of the backseat. “No, Sammy.”

“You should tell him.”

“Why?” Dean’s fingers curl reflexively around his throat as if he can hide the bruises. “I don’t want to.”

“Would you rather he find out when he sees you at school?”

Dean had considered that possibility, but made the decision to simply never attend high school again. He’s going to live in the back of his father’s car until he dies. “Not going.”

“You have to. Bobby already said we can’t stay here tomorrow. He’s gotta go to Sheridan in the morning.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to go to school.”

“Do you know who they are?” Sam turns and faces Dean, leaning over the front seat with his patented scowl. “Is that why you don’t want to go? Are they in your classes?”

There are many reasons Dean hates being a liar, and this is one of them. Sam likes to perforate his stories until they’re as flimsy and transparent as their mother’s sheer curtains. But he’d had such little choice when Len told him to leave; no way to hide the beating he’d taken, no place to go except Bobby’s porch like a stray, limping dog.

Of course he told them he’d been put through the wringer by a group of kids who pegged him as a faggot: their word, not his. And not too far from the truth. 

He considered honesty for all of five seconds before remembering they’d homeless and hungry if it weren’t for Len, and that’s assuming they’d believe him in the first place. 

“Didn’t know them,” Dean says again. He’d explained this already as Bobby iced his lip and forced a couple of pills into his system to help with the pain.

“Then what’s the big deal?” Sam nudges at Dean with his hand, forgetting the smattering of bruises along his ribs. Dean hisses at the contact and Sam retracts, scowl melting into sympathy. “Sorry,” he offers, then, “I just don’t get why you’d hide something like this from him. It’s not like he’s going to think less of you.”

“You don’t even know him,” Dean spits, ribs aching to match the soreness around his neck. Sometimes Dean feels like he doesn’t know Cas either.

“I know he likes you, dumbass.” Sam’s voice is soft despite the harsh sentiment. “You should tell him before he finds out from someone else. Or you know, before he sees you at school at freaks out.”

“Not going to school.”

“So you’re just going to stop living ‘cause a bunch of lowlifes beat you up? No more school, no more Cas? You’re going to let them win?”

Dean would laugh if his throat didn’t hurt so badly. Apparently Sam’s been watching too many underdog movies. “Fuck off, Sam.”

His brother doesn’t listen. It’s no surprise considering that’s ninety percent of the reason Sam’s always getting in trouble at home, or why he’s rarely home in the first place. Defiance is thick in his blood and Dean’s not sure whether he’s more afraid of that or envious of it. Right now it’s just pissing him off, and though Sam’s presence is quiet and feather-light in the small space of the Impala, it’s like the butterfly that lands on a weighted branch and causes the whole thing to snap and crash noisily to the ground.

Dean’s chest starts to heave like a cornered animal’s. He tries to count again but fails, eyes burning and wet. He can’t breathe despite desperately gasping for air. Logic and reason seem to fly out the window as his brain spirals in a tangled mess of _I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying_. The pain amplifies to agonizing levels and he’s crying, he’s actually crying like a child, helpless and weak.

Sam is on him in an instant, draping his scrawny frame over Dean’s, repeating something in his ear that sounds calm and soothing but isn’t helping at all. Dean covers his face and hides, the shame unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” Dean chokes out. For an instant he’s convinced that Sam knows, that the world knows what he does with Len when the shadows are out and the doors are locked. Sam’s eyes will bore into him and see all the ways he’s failed, that Dean is to blame for the way Len treats their family, that he wasn’t good enough to keep them happy and safe.

“I’m getting Bobby,” Sam says, scrambling out of the car in a hurry. He leaves the door open in his haste and the cold air rushes in.

Dean’s still a pathetic mess when Sam returns with Bobby huffing behind him. He’s jerked upwards into a sitting position and held there, one meaty hand against his shoulder.

“Snap out of it, kid,” Bobby says, but the cold air is clinging to his skin and he’s paralyzed. Bobby gives him a firm shake that echoes pain through every bruise and Dean gasps, blinking through the tears going icy on his lashes. “Look at me.”

Dean tries to fold in on himself but can’t, the hand on his shoulder pinning him in place. His heart aches with an unfamiliar sickness: the weight of Bobby’s hand is like the weight of the memories, tethering him to the moment, to reality. He doesn’t feel trapped by it.

When he finally manages a few seconds of eye contact, Bobby looks worse than Dean feels. There’s disgust in the old man’s features, and something like love and worry but marred by too much confusion. It’s like Dean is an unrecognizable creature and Bobby doesn’t know whether to muzzle him or put him down.

“Dean.” Bobby inches closer, one leg planted on the seat and the other still hanging out of the car. “Look at me and listen.”

Dean nods and looks in his direction, though he can’t quite hold his gaze. Sam hovers in his periphery, small and distant.

“I know I said I wasn’t gonna make you go to the station, and I still ain’t. That’s your choice,” Bobby says, more authoritative than Dean’s used to. He’s never been one to wrestle with power. “But this is the third time I’ve had to shake some sense into you. I’m not doing it a fourth.”

Dean tenses and waits. This is it. Bobby’s going to kick him out and let him be someone else’s problem. He’s not their dad; he never signed up to take on their bullshit and Dean should have remembered that before running here with his tail tucked between his legs.

“First thing’s first: we’re gonna get some chow in you before you get knocked over by a stale breeze. I’m makin’ you a burger and you’re gonna eat the whole thing, got it?” Dean shrugs his free shoulder. Bobby takes it as affirmation and continues. “When you’re full up, we’ll have a talk about how we’re handlin’ this, okay? I want you to think about letting me take you to the hospital. You’re not dying, but maybe they can give you something to help keep you calm.”

Sam slides back into the front seat and Dean gets his breathing under control. The end of the world still feels like it’s on the horizon, and maybe Bobby still wants him out of his hair, but his lungs are working rhythmically and the feeling has returned to his fingers.

He doesn’t want to go to the hospital. He doesn’t want to lie again, doesn’t want the stupid story to grow legs and run wildly out of control. Saying it once already feels like too much.

“You alright?” Bobby asks, the authority gone. Dean knows what Bobby means and nods. Even though he’s obviously a broken toy, chewed through and riddled with holes, he knows he’s not going to nosedive into another attack so quickly. He’s sure he can at least make it through dinner. “I’ll be back in a few.”

The door closes and the Impala fills slowly with heat once more. Dean stays where he’d been put, sitting slumped and lifeless against the seat like a ragdoll. He wants to hate Len for doing this to him, but it’s a cheap and selfish way to pass the blame when he knows it’s his fault.

_“Jesus.” Len staggers back and drops his eyes to his hands. Dean scurries across the carpet until he collides with the wall. “Jesus Christ, Dean. Get out of here before I fucking kill you.”_

Dean kind of wishes he had.

Sam turns the music back up so they both can hear it, but keeps it low enough as an invitation for Dean to speak if he wanted to. He doesn’t, and Sam should know that.

By the time Bobby returns with food, Dean feels like an oozing mess. His whole body hurts, heart included, and he’s resigned to the fact that Bobby will probably force him to go to the hospital even though he’d rather take another kick to the ribs. The paper plate is overfilled with onion rings and ketchup, and Bobby even hands him a coke to wash it down with.

“Eat up, no excuses. Then we’ll talk.” Bobby trades a knowing glance with Sam, an unspoken agreement to make sure Dean eats and doesn’t toss it out the window for Rumsfeld.

Surprisingly, Dean doesn’t need much more convincing. The first few bites are awful and heavy on his tongue, but his appetite reawakens by the time he’s done with half the burger. He hadn’t eaten all day. Partly because of his burning, swollen lip, and partly because he didn’t deserve it. Sure, Len punishes him real good, but sometimes Dean feels like it isn’t enough. He still fucks up too much.

҉     ҉     ҉

Bobby is understandably pissed, but Dean’s not giving in. He refuses to go to the hospital. It’s not just about lying anymore, or facing humiliation. He’d never thought Len capable of hurting him like this, and the bruises mean Len is capable of quite a lot more than he’s been doing.

Sam could be next. It terrifies him. That threat has always been close, but now it seems imminent.

“Then I’ll call your mother,” Bobby says. “Maybe she can talk some sense into you.”

But he and Dean both know she won’t do any good. “She’ll probably just cry and get drunk.”

“Watch it,” Bobby warns. Dean looks up in time to catch the faint shake of his head. “She’s still your mom.”

Yeah, well. She’s still a drunk, too.

Dean’s on the couch now, having been lured inside for the purpose of this conversation. Rumsfeld is at his feet, head resting on Dean’s knee as if he’s been given a direct order to keep Dean company. He tried to nudge the damn dog off of him a few times already, but Rumsfeld can be more persistent than Bobby when he wants to be.

He does feel better with some food in his belly and a warm, slobbery weight on his knee, but Bobby still sees some room for improvement. He keeps pushing the hospital idea like it’s the only viable solution to the problem. But it’s not like they can just walk in and ask for a quick fix in a prescription bottle.

“I don’t want to take any pills,” Dean repeats.

“And I don’t want to leave in the mornin’ knowing you’re not taken care of.” Bobby’s head cuts to the side to look at Sam. “No offense.”

Sam shrugs, unbothered. “I think you should call Cas.”

“What good would that do?” Dean means it rhetorically, but as he scratches the soft spot just behind Rumsfeld’s ears, he realizes Sam is going to take that as an opportunity to spout off every justification he can think of.

But it’s Bobby who answers first. “Gotta tell somebody, kid. What about that friend of yours? If you don’t want to see a doctor, fine. But you need some kind of support system until you’re over the worst of this.”

“Why can’t I just stay here?” Dean doesn’t mean for his voice to be so pleading, but he can tell how tragic he sounds by the way Bobby’s face droops at the question. “You’ve let me stay here before when you were gone. How is this any different?”

“It’s different ‘cause you weren’t falling apart those other times. Whatever happened has you all twisted up and I don’t want to come back to your dead body on my floor.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. “You think I’d kill myself?”

“Not on purpose.” Bobby leans back in his chair and rolls his shoulders. “You’re liable to stop breathin’ with the way you keep losin’ it, or maybe you’ll just forget to eat for an entire week and die that way.”

“So my options are to go to the hospital or find someone to be my babysitter? If you take me to Regional, mom will find out anyway because they can’t treat me without parental consent. That’s not much of a choice.”

“You’re lucky I’m not haulin’ your kicked ass down to the station to file a report.”

Dean’s stomach flips at the thought. Bobby promised he wouldn’t make him do that, but this discussion has Dean feeling just as cornered and helpless as the rest of the world does.

Rumsfeld nuzzles into Dean’s leg and licks his hand, leaving his fingers sticky with drool. He tries to wipe it off of his pants but it only seems to smear the mess around. Dumb dog.

“And if I call Cas?” Dean asks. He gets it; he really does. Bobby just wants to make sure he’s okay, but Dean genuinely doesn’t understand how telling other people will help. His experience with that method of reaching out only left him worse off in the past and it’s not like it’ll help his bruises heal any faster.

Bobby sighs and takes off his cap. He rubs a hand over his head and stares at the floor, then at Rumsfeld. “Look, son. I’m real sorry about what happened. Sometimes cowards travel in packs and use violence to compensate for all that fear. What they did, that’s got nothin’ to do with you. And I’m real glad you came here.”

Dean tries to blink away the tears in his eyes but only makes it worse. Rumsfeld whines and pushes himself higher on Dean’s lap.

“You don’t want to talk to the police, I can understand that. You don’t want to see a doctor, I can understand that too. But the more buckets we got, the more water we can scoop out of this sinking ship. I’m up to my knees in it, kid, and I meant what I said. No more panic attacks under my watch. If you call your fella, that’s one more person helpin’ us keep you afloat. I’d settle for that.”

Sam is on him again in a flash, or maybe Dean just didn’t notice to slow progress his little brother made from the other end of the couch. Sam is hugging him, carefully avoiding the spots he knows are tender. He keeps his arms high up on Dean’s chest and presses his face to Dean’s collar bone. Long brown hair tickles his neck and makes him sick, makes him want to flinch, but it’s hard to push Sammy away when he’s like this.

Dean swallows, suppressing the urge to fight for some breathing room and doing his best to hug Sam back. He’s not great at brotherly affection but now he feels the guilt that Sam and Bobby must be sharing.

When Sam doesn’t let go, Dean has to pry open his fingers from where’d they’d been clutching his jeans tight enough to make his knuckles go white. A quick glance upward tells him that Bobby saw, that Bobby knows he’s right and they need to send in reinforcements.

“You call,” Dean whispers, starting to shake again. Sam retreats and narrows his eyes, suspicious. “You call him, okay? I don’t – don’t make me talk about it again. You can tell him.”

Not all cowards use violence, he thinks. Some simply use others to bear the brunt of the work, to carry the burden. 

And technically Dean isn’t lying to Cas if someone else forwards the message.

҉     ҉     ҉

It isn’t more than thirty minutes or so before Cas appears outside of the Impala, first as a lengthened shadow across the window and then as a physical presence pressed against the glass. He doesn’t knock, just tugs open the heavy door and slides in to the passenger seat.

“Oh my God,” Cas breathes, and then his hands are pulling at Dean’s sweater in a confused, tentative motion.

Dean thought it would be easier out here with only the dim yellow glow of the car light and no audience, but as Cas keeps muttering nonsensical things that sound like apologies, he knows it will be just as difficult. But he couldn’t stand the looks he was getting from Bobby anymore, couldn’t handle Sam’s weight blanketing his own.

“What happened?”

He knows Sam already told him; he was there when Sam called and related the news. Dean’s a little ashamed at how much easier it is to lie to his own family than it is to lie to Cas, so he turns his head away and says nothing.

“Dean, please,” Cas says, hands moving upward to cup his face. Dean flinches but allows himself to be turned back. He keeps his eyes down, unable to hold the intensity of Cas’ frantic staring.

He can tell when Cas fully takes in his appearance by the way his breathing changes and how his mouth hangs open on a gasp. He knows Cas can see the bruises despite the poor lighting, sees the swelling of his lip and the awful red color of his neck that hasn’t yet purpled.

Then Cas’ hands slip carefully down, light and gentle over the curve of Dean’s jaw and settle on the sides of Dean’s neck. His fingers lace softly at his nape and it’s too much, too intimate. It feels like Len is with him in the car and he jerks away, breaking out of Cas’ hold.

“Don’t touch my neck,” Dean pleads, shocked at his own vehemence.

Cas nods and does a pitiable job of hiding his embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m sorry.”

There’s no music playing this time for Dean to distract himself with, only the heater blowing air in a steady hum. He wants to look at Cas and return the apology, wants to explain, but the words are stuck in his mouth. The full minute of silence becomes too much for Dean to bear and he has to say something, but all that comes out is, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Cas nods again like he’s trying to compensate: too agreeable. “But, I…can I see?”

A small part of Dean wants to be offended, but can’t. The heartbreak is too easy to read in Cas’ eyes. It’s not curiosity that drives the question, but concern. He’d refuse on principal if it weren’t for the larger, nagging part of him that craves Cas’ attention and begs for it.

Dean looks down at his chest, at the logo on his sweater and the knotted strings dangling on top of it, then pulls his arms out of the sleeves and pushes it up. He drapes the hoodie over the steering wheel and sits there, waiting.

Though his t-shirt is still on, there’s something about this that feels more like submission than he’s ever done before. He’s offering himself like a dog on its back, baring his throat to the alpha.

Cas inches closer, not that he wasn’t close enough to begin with, and holds Dean’s hand. He studies Dean’s arms in sections, noting every flaw he sees. His arms are relatively unscathed; Dean didn’t have the presence of mind to fight back, too stunned by what was happening and who’d been doing it. The worst of it was already visible with the sweater on, but there are larger bruises beneath the t-shirt that make it hurt to breathe.

“I’m so sorry.”

Cas pauses, startled. It takes Dean a second to realize he’d said the words out loud.

“Why are you sorry? I’m – I mean, it’s my fault, isn’t it?” Cas’ voice starts to waver, disconsolate. “This happened because of me.”

Dean shakes his head but Cas cuts him off before he can deny it. “When Sam said you’d been hurt by a group of guys, I just knew it. I knew it had to be them.” Cas clutches at the front of his shirt. “When I came out, they were relentless, picking on me all the time. My dad got me St. George and told me to be strong – told me to be the hero of my own story. I’d almost forgotten about them and what they put me through.”

Dean watches in amazement as Cas closes his eyes and starts to cry. It’s bewildering. “No, don’t. It’s not that. It wasn’t them.”

The doubt in Cas’ features are painful. “It must have been. Sam said you didn’t see, but they hurt you because of me. They hurt you because I love you.”

Then Cas cries unashamed, breath hitching and chest shuddering. Dean feels his body start to do the same: first from the sight of Cas’ state, then from the knowledge of his own, and finally because Cas said he loved him.

It’s not Cas’ fault but he’s not entirely wrong, either. Dean made his choices and these are his consequences alone, but there’s a truth in Cas’ words that Dean is afraid to admit, even to himself. Why did he shove Len away? Why had he been so rebellious when he knew he wouldn’t get away with it?

Because Cas loves him. Because he loves Cas.

“I wasn’t them, I promise,” Dean says, unsure of what to do. He wishes he hadn’t agreed to bring Cas into this mess. He should have just gone to the damn hospital. “Whoever those guys were that hurt you aren’t the same guys that hurt me, okay?”

Cas reaches out and pulls Dean in to a hug. “How do you know? Sam said –”

“Forget what Sam said.” Dean hugs him back and rubs a soothing hand along his spine. “I didn’t get a good look, but they were too old to be anyone who picked on you. They weren’t our age, Cas. Believe me.”

It’s another technicality that helps Dean cope with the terrible ache of lying. It doesn’t hurt so bad when it’s partially true, when it helps lessen the guilt Cas shouldn’t be carrying in the first place. The damage done to Dean’s body came from the hands of a much older man who’s been marking his territory far longer than Cas has been wearing his pendant.

“They could have killed you.”

“But they didn’t.” Dean presses a kiss to Cas’ forehead and suddenly he’s the one doing the comforting, making sure Cas is okay and getting the sobs out of his system. It feels better like this, being the protector for once in a way he can measure. He’s been protecting his family for as long as he can remember but it always looks so heartless.

His lip stings when he kisses Cas a second time and he thinks it might have split again. He licks at it to taste for blood, not wanting to spill any in the car.

Cas lifts his head like he’s about to say something, but Dean truly doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He can’t. “This used to be my dad’s car.”

There’s a moment where Dean thinks Cas is going to ignore him and press the issue, but Cas just takes a deep breath to settle himself instead. “Really?”

“Yeah. He was supposed to get a family van from the dealership, but he ended up bringing this thing home instead. Mom was furious.”

There’s a little amusement in Cas’ eyes alongside the horror. “She didn’t make him take it back?”

“I think she liked it too much. She was never really a family van kind of person. Getting the van was probably more about what she thought was right, as opposed to what she wanted. She wanted to be a good mom but not necessarily a soccer mom.”

“So the Chevy stayed,” Cas smiles, sitting up a little straighter and wiping his eyes. He rests his arm over Dean’s shoulders like they’re on a date. “Tell me more about your dad.”

Dean leans into Cas and sighs. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. I don’t think you’ve told me anything about him other than he existed.”

There’s a laugh stuck in Dean’s lungs, but he’s still feeling too raw and scraped out to do more than smirk. “I don’t remember much, to be honest. He died when I was four.”

He thinks about explaining the entirety of his father’s death, but his faulty human wiring has misfired enough for one day. Talking about the fire is hard enough without staining the memory with Len in the back of his head, with the smudged prints of Len’s hands as bruises around his throat.

But Cas is holding him now, kind of. Dean is leaning on him and Cas is resting his head on top of Dean’s like two lopsided puzzle pieces squished together. When he doesn’t elaborate, Cas takes his free hand like he did before and holds it, offering reassurance. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was hardest on my mom,” Dean admits. “He died saving her – saving all of us, really. She never got over it.”

Mary tried her hardest and it killed her to fail. Killed her anew every day that she couldn’t wake up with a smile or get through menial daily tasks without sobbing. She had the value of John’s life weighted against her own and felt worthless for it. Losing her husband had been one thing, but that he’d ran back into the house knowing he might not come out, that he willingly gave his life for hers was unbearable.

She tried to be worth the cost, but after enough self-proclaimed failures she stopped trying altogether. She gave up.

“He was a hero,” Cas says. “Sounds like a good man.”

“I miss him.”

Cas shifts and squirms into a slightly better position and plants a small kiss on Dean’s cheek. “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding…weird, I guess, but I really appreciate what your father did.”

“What?” Dean turns his head so quickly that he accidentally knocks into Cas’ face. Cas laughs it off and kisses him again. Dean would be annoyed if he weren’t so curious. “Why?”

“He saved your life,” Cas says as though the answer is obvious. “He died so that you could live. I know that’s a morbid thought, but because of him I got to meet you. I got to know you.”

He looks at Dean with more of that overly sweet sincerity and Dean’s heart rate spikes. He thinks it might be another wave of panic, but it’s warmer and almost exciting rather than fearful and laced with dread. He doesn’t know what to call it, but his whole body aches with it and overrides the pain. Makes him feel a little better.

But he has no reply. It may be the first time anyone’s told him they’re glad he’s alive. The first time he doesn’t completely feel like a burden.

“I’ve been fixing this car up for a few years now. Bobby’s been teaching me,” Dean blurts, changing the subject. He ignores the frown on Cas’ face and keeps talking. “When it’s all done it’ll be mine.”

“That’s cool,” Cas says, but he’s clearly disappointed.

“I knew the moment I started working on this car that it’d take me wherever I wanted to go. I’ve spent a lot of hours putting this thing back together, picturing how all that asphalt will look beneath her tires. Sammy wants to go to college, but I just want to chase the horizon, you know? That’s all I ever wanted.”

And he’s never wanted it more, not since Len made it perfectly clear just how willing he is to put an end to Dean’s life. It’s strange: Dean has thought a lot about death, has wanted to die many times before, but in the face of it he couldn’t man up. He was so scared, so downright terrified that he’d never get to truly live that he begged his for life.

Maybe that’s what brought Len back to his senses, or maybe Dean had absolutely no sway in whether he lived or not.

“Is that still what you want?”

Yes. A million times yes. He wants to drive away on this 18th birthday and never come back. Leave this fucked up life behind.

“I don’t know,” he says instead. He’s not lying. There’s just something else he wants a little bit more but he doesn’t know how to say it, not yet. “Did you mean what you said?”

Cas lifts an eyebrow in confusion. “About?”

“You love me.”

“Oh,” Cas blinks, realization dawning and tinting his ears with pink. He looks away but nods. “Yes.”

“Then no,” Dean answers, and this time the speed of his heart could definitely be panic. “That’s not what I want anymore.”

Cas crushes their mouths together and now his lip is definitely bleeding, but neither of them mentions it for fear of breaking the kiss. It’s sad and little desperate, but he thinks they’ve earned it. They can use each other like this until they both recover from their wounds.

Dean’s phone buzzes once on the dash. He ignores it.

_“Get up,” Len shouts when Dean doesn’t move. “Get up!” Dean tries to obey but can’t. Everything hurts. “Don’t do this to me, boy. Don’t make me do this.”_

_Dean pulls himself up and sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t know how to run if he can’t breathe. But as he darts through the door he can hear Len behind him, following him with thunderous steps. “Wait – Dean, oh fuck, kiddo – I’m sorry. Shit, look at you. You’re bleeding.”_

_Len grabs the hood of his sweater and yanks him, hard enough that Dean falls and instinctively shields his face._

_“You’re scared of me,” Len says, and there are tears streaking his face. “I won’t – I didn’t want that. I love you.” He eases back, hands raised. He keeps shaking his head but doesn’t make another move. Adrenaline forces Dean upward and he’s running out the door, looking back only once to see Len stopped in the doorway._

_Only 15 miles to Bobby's._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any typos and errors, as usual.

The bell rings and Dean heads straight for the door. He can feel the eyes of his classmates watching him, can hear the whispers shared through muted breaths. Rumors flutter between lips and ears and Dean tries to shut them all out. He doesn’t care what they think, because the reality is that even their wildest stories aren’t close to the truth. That’s the only thing he’s trying to protect, and none of them have close enough to touch it.

Teachers talk to him with soft voices and soothing tones like they’re trying to calm a spooked horse, though none of them really pry or force him to talk about it when he doesn’t want to. No one sends him to the principal’s office, no one offers him a yellow pass to speak with the guidance counselor. Aside from the wild whispers and bug-eyed stares, he’s mostly left alone.

He’s glad for it, but a small part of him wishes for the same thing he’s always yearned for: that someone, anyone, would stand on a soap box for him and tell the world what’s wrong, that there’s more to his bruises and skittish behavior than he says. That there’s only a thin veil between them and the truth and no one cares enough to lift it.

Dean limps a little as he walks – impossible not to, actually, no matter how he tries – and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from whimpering like he wants to. It hurts to take a deep breath because his ribs are still sore and limiting his breathing has been a frustrating task to keep from being noticeable. It made going up the stairs nearly impossible.

But the day is over. He’s free to go home and soon he’ll be back in his bed and he can shut the world out until tomorrow. Len’s presence has been intermittent, kind of floating in Dean’s periphery but never quite being in full view.

As he passes through the lower halls toward the main doors, he pauses outside the opened gym doors when he recognizes a pair of familiar voices. He watches wordlessly for a moment as Cas and Alfie both kick around a ball, shirtless and sweaty. Hannah sits on the bleachers with a textbook spread on her lap and a highlighter dragging over the pages. They’re playing soccer, and the brothers are evenly matched.

Dean doesn’t want to be noticed, not right away. He leans against the metal door frame and rests his head for a moment, taking in the sight. Nostalgia creeps in first, then jealousy, but ultimately he’s left with a general sense of numbness and awe.

Besides, it’s not a bad day when Dean gets to look at Cas, half naked and running, dark hair sticking to his temples and lips stretched in a smile.

He wonders if that’s what his boyfriend would look like during sex. If he’d be noisy and excited, all jitters and nerves, or just breathy and quiet with that intense brooding stare of his.

“Hey,” Alfie calls, spying Dean in the doorway and stopping the game. “Want to join us?”

Dean is a little offended; of course he can’t, not with the way he’s more purple than tan, but it’s possible Alfie is just making the offer because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Cas stops too, turning to Dean with a sorry grin that’s more sympathy than excitement. The light in his eyes nearly flickers out and Dean feels a pang of guilt. He shouldn’t have stopped to watch.

He shakes his head, unwilling to speak. It’s still embarrassingly rough and even worse from disuse.

Cas jogs over, and the closer he gets the more Dean can smell him. That much sweat and stink should not be a turn on, and yet his mouth betrays him by watering and his hips angle forward with a hint of invitation. Even after everything he’s been through, there’s apparently nothing Dean can do to stop his body from wanting something it shouldn’t be allowed to have. It’s unfair.

“Hi,” Cas says, voice sweet and quiet. He doesn’t make a move to get any closer to try to touch him, which Dean appreciates. “You feeling better?”

Dean looks down at the floor and picks his nails.

“You’d tell me if anyone gave you any trouble, right?” Cas tilts his downward in an attempt to make eye contact, so Dean looks up at him and shrugs a single shoulder. “Me and Alfie both, we’d kick their asses.”

That earns a smile from Dean, which only hurts a little when it pulls at the newly knitted skin over the split on his lip.

“I’m glad to see you,” Cas adds, voice quieter. “I was hoping I could talk to you alone for a minute?”

Dean spots a new bead of sweat on Cas’ brow that isn’t from playing soccer, and notices the subtle way his fingers are trembling where they rest on his bared hips. Dean knows he should be feeling terrified right now, that Cas could be breaking up with him or asking for some space, but that numbed out feeling in his chest keeps him from overreacting. It’s kind of nice, actually; not being able to feel much of anything.

But Dean nods, knowing he doesn’t have much of a choice. Better to hear it now rather than later.

Cas places a careful hand on his shoulder and guides him into the gym, around the dark corner behind the bleachers where Hannah perches like a studious bird. There’s a suspicious lack of teachers that Dean is grateful for, but he can still hear Alife kicking the soccer ball against the wall and complaining when it doesn’t do exactly what he wants it to.

There’s still enough of the old Dean left inside him to make his heart race and stomach drop, but he keeps his expression stoic.

“I know it’s kind of late notice – um, Alfie said I probably shouldn’t ask, but I wanted to anyway – but, do you think you’d maybe to, uh, go to Prom with me?”

Dean looks up, just enough for his eyes to land on Saint George resting over Cas’ breastbone, and nods.

There’s little Dean hates more than playing dress up and dancing in public, especially to cheesy romance songs and with the pressure to impress, but he’s seen enough movies to know that it’s supposed to be fun – supposed to be a night of memories that will last forever. And this thing he has with Cas, whatever it is, he wants it to last just as long.

He wants to be offended when Cas looks so surprised, that Alfie said Cas shouldn’t ask in the first place, but then he takes in a slow, deep breath and winces when his lungs feel like they’re scraping bare against his ribs. They both probably think Dean is being held together by duct tape.

Bobby had suggested a tight wrap around his chest and more of those pain pills, but Dean refused. Duct tape might have been a manlier solution.

“Cool,” Cas says, voice breaking a little. Dean leans forward and drops his forehead against Cas’ chest before he can convince himself not to.

It should be gross – the sweat against Dean’s face and the weak, needy display of affection – but instead of feeling ashamed, he leans further into Cas’ hold and closes his eyes when Cas drops a kiss on the top of his head.

He feels so fragile, so mortal. This simple thing, a lingering connection between him and someone else, tethers him to humanity in a way he’s barely known before. There’s more to what people do to each other than what Dean has been shown and it feels so humbling to be a part of it.

But when Cas brings his hand to cradle the back of Dean’s neck, he flinches away and grips the padded strap over his shoulder, pulling his backpack a little higher, and steps back.

He can tell Cas is about to apologize, so he interrupts. “When is Prom?”

Cas’ lip quirks up in a half-smile. “In a few weeks. The theme is a little silly – Under the Sea, I think. Probably going to make the gym look like it’s for mermaids.”

Dean hurts but he affords a small laugh. “I’ll have to dress up, won’t I?”

“Only a little,” Cas admits. “Button up shirt and slacks. Some guys wear tuxedos but I’m not going to.”

There’s a strange lilt in Cas’ voice, one that makes Dean a little suspicious, but he’s not sure why. It could be his own paranoia, his own lack of money to get something nicer than gently used pleated pants at Goodwill, if he can manage to convince his mother of that at all. He may have to borrow from Alfie.

“I’m gonna head home,” Dean says, taking another step back. His neck still prickles from being touched and he’s tired. He waves once at Alfie and his friend waves back, though he doesn’t look too pleased with his brother the way he’s glaring at Cas’ back. “I think Alfie’s getting bored waiting for you.”

“You okay to walk home?”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. “Yep.”

“Okay…well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Cas stands there awkwardly like an actor who doesn’t know what to do with his hands, eventually shoving them into the pockets of his shorts and sighing.

He wants another hug or something, Dean can tell, but his body is too much on edge for any more of that. “Bye.”

As much as Dean craves that connection to humanity, feeling human and doing all the things he sees other people do, there’s a certain sense of soft comfort that comes with the familiar, with staying in the boundaries drawn to protect himself. It shouldn’t still be this strange between him and his boyfriend, so weird and unfamiliar, but Dean doesn’t know how to change it. Doesn’t know if he wants to.

The walk home feels a little like pelting each one of his muscles with rocks, but he manages without too much trouble. He doesn’t live too far from the school, fortunately, but he has to cross one of those old pedestrian bridges that goes over the main road and requires him to climb a narrow, brutal set of concrete stairs.

He stops to breathe at the top, feeling far too constricted by his tender ribs and sides. It feels like his bruises go so deep they reflect the organs inside, like his kidneys and intestines are black and blue and failing. He’d regret not taking more of Bobby’s pills, but he’d rather feel the pain than that horrible, floating buzz that reminds him of his mother.

Dean watches the cars drive by beneath him through the green, rusting metal mesh over the walkway, giving his body a few extra minutes of rest, when he’s hit with a cloud of smoke and the realization that someone is watching him.

“You ever wonder what it would feel like to fall into oncoming traffic?”

Startled, Dean looks over toward the sound of a girl’s voice, golden and smooth. Foreign, too, though he admittedly isn’t sure where she’s from. British, he thinks. Maybe even Australian.

“Can’t say that I have,” Dean lies.

She comes closer, hair gold like her voice and long, falling over her shoulders. She’s slender, jeans hanging off the curve of her hips with an oversized band t-shirt tightened around her frame by a knot. He notices the stains on her shirt without staring at them.

“Liar,” she says, and Dean doesn’t argue. “Want one?” She hands him a cigarette, but he shakes his head.

She’s a student, her backpack hanging off one shoulder, both front pockets ripped open from overuse.

“Do you think it would be painful?” She continues, leaning over the railing and blowing smoke through the mesh. “Or do you think the shock of it would make you numb first?”

Dean shrugs, but watches her carefully. “It would kill you anyway, so even if it was painful, it’s not like the pain would last long.”

She tilts her hips to the side, looking like some kind of grungy magazine model with dirt under her fingernails. Her eyes finally take in all of Dean’s appearance, but her indifference is oddly genuine. “I’m Bela.”

“I’m Dean.”

“Well, Dean,” she starts, taking another drag from her cigarette, “I broke my arm once, and I didn’t really notice the pain until I was halfway to the hospital. My arm looked like a warped tire iron but it felt more like pressure than agony. I bet that’s what getting hit by a car would feel like: a lot of pressure, and then nothing.”

There’s truth in her words, though Dean doesn’t admit it. He made it all the way to Bobby’s house before the real pain started settling in. Every nerve in his body had been alight with adrenaline and nothing hurt quite as bad as it did once he was safely under Bobby’s roof.

“Unless the initial impact didn’t kill you,” Dean suggests.

“True.” Bela snuffs out the last of her cigarette with the squeak of her shoe against the ground. “Then if we are to die a painless death, Dean, it either needs to be so shocking that we’re paralyzed, or so instant that the pain never stands a chance.”

“I guess it’s too much to ask to die peacefully in our sleep,” Dean smirks, forgetting that he should be nervous around someone new.

“If you want to be boring about it, sure. Personally, I’d like to die in a way that makes other people say _holy shit_.”

Dean just shakes his head, torn between laughing and frowning at her. He’s spent so much of his life trying to survive that the idea of facing death so bluntly, beyond indulgent fantasies of suicide to escape Len once and for all, is almost absurd. He has no idea what to say.

So he says nothing, and Bela doesn’t push him on it.

“Walk me home?” She asks, and surprisingly Dean doesn’t mind. It would be a welcome delay, since he doesn’t have that much to look forward to at his place. He nods, and they walk side-by-side down the walkway and the stairs, which is far less painful going down than up.

It’s not until they’re on the other side of the road and ambling into the low income neighborhood that Dean asks where she lives.

“Just a few more blocks this way,” she says, pointing in the direction of Dean’s house.

“Where are you from?”

“Hmm?”

“Your accent,” Dean clarifies, slowing his pace.

“Oh,” Bela breathes, biting her lip. “The United Kingdom,” she says, and though it’s so vague it’s barely an answer, he doesn’t ask for more detail. “My family moved here for work. You know how it is.”

He doesn’t, but he nods anyway.

They turn onto Dean’s road, but before the panic and paranoia can settle in and make him run, Bela stops in front of the brown double-wide that always made him uncomfortable to walk by. Skull pattern sheets hang over one of the open windows and he realizes there’s only a screen door where a real door should be.

“This is my stop,” Bela says, strangely unashamed. She smiles at him and winks. “Try not to fall onto any cars on your way back home.”

“I live right over there, actually,” Dean says, pointing to the white duplex only three houses down.

A light flickers on in her eyes and the bravado behind her smile vanishes. “Oh,” she says, staring. “What a happy coincidence.”

“Yeah…” Dean swallows, ignoring strange sensation crawling over his skin.

“Better get home then,” Bela says playfully, shoving a hand in her back pocket. “I hear people get jumped a lot in this neighborhood, Ponyboy.”

Dean finally laughs for real, shaking his head. “Does that make you Cherry?”

She replies without missing a beat, walking toward the screen door but calling out over her shoulder. “Please, I’m twice as clever as that bitch and red hair is way overrated.”

“If you say so,” Dean smiles. He didn’t think Cherry was clever at all, more sad than anything, though he can’t disagree that red hair is overrated. He’s a sucker for the darker shades.

He watches as she goes inside and lets the stonewashed white screen slam and rattle behind her, and tries not to wonder about the missing door.

҉     ҉     ҉ 

Holding tight to his pride, Dean keeps his mouth closed and waits.

Len follows Mary into the kitchen and gropes her ass while she giggles. She’s stumbling a bit from the wine as she stirs milk into the gravy, and after a couple more pinches to her backside, Len opens the oven to glance at the rising biscuits.

“Got about one more minute,” he says, and Mary hums.

Dean thinks he hates these moments the most, when his mother is just shy of drunk and happy about the world and Len can’t keep his hands off her. He used to pray nightly for her happiness, that one day she’d finally see the sunlight and beam with it, but there’s something about her cheerfulness with Len that puts Dean on edge. Makes him to punch them both.

He swears it isn’t jealously. Sometimes he worries that it is, but he knows it’s something blacker, something uglier.

“Can you at least keep the sausage separate?” Sam asks, almost whining. He’s still on his veggie kick and won’t eat meat, and yet their parents seem determined to add meat into every meal as if to mock him.

Proving Dean’s point, Len looks at Mary as they try to hide their laughter.

“It’s not biscuits and gravy if there’s no sausage in it,” Len answers. He’s had a bit to drink himself, eyes red in the corners, but it doesn’t dull their unsettling sparkle. He winks at Dean when no one is looking.

Sam huffs. “It would literally still be biscuits and gravy if it only had _biscuits_ and _gravy_.” He scowls when he realizes neither parent is paying attention to him.

“Just eat around it,” Dean mumbles, attempting to preemptively strike the rising tension. He’s growing tired of all the damage control.

Of course it doesn’t work; Sam’s resting bitch face is bitchier than ever. “You’re not the one who has to stay here and eat it, so shut up.”

Dean bends over the couch and rests his arms near Sam’s head, leaning down to speak gently so only Sam would hear. “Or maybe you should learn to stay out of the crosshairs once in a while and keep your head down. Has complaining ever won you anything before? You’re awfully stupid for a smart kid, Sam.”

He’s surprised by the venom in his words, how he suddenly felt like a snake hissing filth in his brother’s ear. Dean bolts back with a sickness in his gut but schools his expression with practiced ease. Not much left to the pride he’d been holding on to so tightly.

Though they’d been ignoring Sam only a moment ago, Dean turns to see Len appraising him, eyes dragging up and down, back and forth between him and Sam. Then he grins.

Cas will be here any minute; Cas will knock on the door and then Dean won’t have to put up with this, not tonight.

“Okay boys, at the table.”

After a turbulent morning and not much sleep the night before, Dean doesn’t have any expectation that dinner will go smoothly – it rarely does, though they’ve had a few family moments that he’ll cherish, that he’ll never forget – and Sam is right; fortunately for Dean, he’s got a date and won’t have to stick around to watch the Winchester panorama unfold. He sits at the table as instructed and sips on a glass of water with his eyes on the clock.

Sam grumpily snatches a few biscuits from the plate and forgoes the sausage gravy completely, then reaches for the butter. Len plucks it away to use it first, biting his lip to hide his joy at annoying Sam even further.

“You don’t even need butter,” Sam complains, glaring at Len.

Dean loves his brother, but these days he finds himself wanting to strangle him just to keep him from making things worse, to stop all the extra nonsense that could easily be avoided if he just kept his fat mouth shut.

Sam’s never the one who has to pay the consequences for his damn attitude.

“Where are you headed tonight, hun?” Mary asks, taking only a single biscuit for herself with a spoonful of gravy. Len overloads his plate and digs in.

Dean shrugs. “Probably the movies or something.”

Beside him, Len licks his spoon. “Or something?”

“There’s an arcade in the lobby, might do that instead.” Dean feels strangely numb to Len’s pestering questions. He wonders if that should worry him – how numb he feels to most things lately, how his emotional spectrum has been narrowing down between detachment and anger. Thankfully, no one in his family seems to notice.

“Oh, will you need some quarters?” Mary’s interest shines in her inflection as she looks at Dean with soft, fond eyes. His heart betrays him by warming at the attention. “I’ll check my purse.”

“No,” Len says, putting his hand over Mary’s to keep her seated. “Dean’s the girl in this relationship, right? Let the guy pay for it.”

“He’s not a girl, Leonard.”

“You don’t know that,” Len laughs, belittling her with humor. “His clothes are so goddamn baggy there’s no way of knowing what’s under there.”

Mary’s cheek twitches and Dean can tell she’s biting it, trying not to get sucked into the debate. Though she doesn’t argue, she keeps her eyes on her plate and shakes her head in frustration. “If you need some quarters, I’m sure I have some.”

“Hey, whoa,” Len snaps, his fingers clenching around Mary’s in a way that makes Dean think he’s not even aware he’s doing it, so reactive and sudden. “Don’t do that. Don’t undermine me.”

Sam sinks in his chair, hands folding in is lap, half-eaten biscuit forgotten.

And when Len narrows his eyes at Dean, he somehow can’t manage to hold himself together enough to keep his ears from turning red. “Your boyfriend, his dad is some big shot writer, right?”

Dean nods.

“Which means he can afford some fucking quarters for the date he asked you out on. If not, he’s got no business inviting you to an arcade. In my fucking day, it took a hell of a lot more than a pocketful of quarters to get a date to put out.”

This is the time when Sam usually barks a snotty reply and storms from the table, but by some curse or miracle, he’s actually sitting there quietly and literally keeping his head down. Just like Dean told him to.

After who knows how many minutes of terrible silence, there’s a knock at the door. Cas is here.

Dean feels that instant moment of pure relief before Len rises and instructs them all to stay seated. Cold terror locks him into place rather than the power of his stepfather’s command.

Sam’s eyes bug out of his skull as he looks at the door, at Len’s back as he goes to answer it, at Dean sitting paralyzed and biting his freshly healed lip.

The door creaks open and Cas is invited in. Any hint of malice is gone from Len’s voice and replaced with a veneer of charm. “Come on in, we’re just sitting down for dinner. Dean’s been keeping you a secret.”

If he had eaten anything yet, Dean thinks he might be throwing it up.

He hears the shuffle of them walking closer and then Len brings over the only spare chair and seats Cas beside him, nice and close, deceptively welcoming. Mary shifts in her seat after another sip of wine and offers Cas a warm smile.

Dean doesn’t look at Sam, tries not to think about him as he puts on a fake grin to match his parents.

“So, Castiel,” Len says then, taking in Cas’ appearance as if inspecting a car from a lemon lot. “Nice to finally meet the boy who’s been seeing our little Deano.”

Surprisingly, there’s a shred of his pride left that Dean latches on to and dangles from, just enough to keep him from blushing or turning away. He does glance up at Cas, confused to see how happy and excited he looks at getting to dine with Dean’s family. He doesn’t seem nervous at all, not even at the prospect of getting the third degree from his boyfriend’s parents.

Oh, right. Cas has been itching to meet Len and Mary. He’s actually been looking forward to this.

“It’s good to meet you too,” Cas replies almost formally, like he’s been practicing. He probably has.

Mary offers Cas a plate and he accepts it, putting some of the food on his plate and taking a bite. He tells Mary how delicious it is, and Dean knows he’s being generous. It’s mediocre at best – Mary’s a much better cook when she’s not drunk – and he knows this meal isn’t exactly one of her specialties. Becky seems to turn home cooking into fine dining so Cas is used to much better.

But he turns to Cas anyway and softens his expression, thankful. Mary will feel a little better about herself tonight.

“You must be Sam,” Cas says, but Sam doesn’t respond. Little fucker is passive-aggressively getting back at Dean in the most obvious way and now he’s using silence to his advantage.

But then Sam flinches, sucks in a sharp breath, and leans away from Len. “You must be Cas,” Sam mumbles, and Dean gets that heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I hear your dad is a writer,” Len says, of course. “What does he write?”

“Fiction.” Cas swallows the rest of the food in his mouth. “Supernatural stuff. It’s a war series between angels and demons.”

Len smirks a bit and Dean can tell he’s trying not to roll his eyes. The world of fiction and fantasy is something Len has no issue mocking, meant for people light in their loafers or thumb-sucking virgins.

“Catholic, right? Your family?”

“Yes.”

“So the books are like, what, based on your religion or something?”

Cas pauses to consider the question despite how rudely it had been asked, thinking carefully of how to answer. Dean wonders how many times Cas has been questioned about his father’s work.

“A little. It’s certainly inspired by it. My dad used to say that when he was a child, he would admire the stained glass art in his church that depicted the angels, and he’d imagine the battles waged on God’s behalf – or what would have happened if they rebelled.”

Len raises a single eyebrow and drops his fork. “Hell happened, right? Satan was an angel once. Now he just whispers in people’s ears and convinces them to do bad things. Forked tongue and a trident made of bones or something.”

Sam is well hidden behind his slouch and long bangs, but Dean has no such shield. He feels Cas stiffen beside him, feels him searching under the table for Dean’s hand and comfort.

“Something like that,” Cas answers. It’s amazing how easily he brushes off the insult. Dean takes his hand and hopes no one notices.

“So I gotta ask, how’s that work?” Len wags his finger at the two of them, leering.

For a terrifying moment, Dean thinks Len is asking about their sex life, wanting to know for sure who bottoms and who tops. It’s such a disgusting question and though they definitely haven’t reached that point yet, he knows Len has probably been dying to know if Dean gets on his knees for Cas, if he does all that he’s done for Len and more.

Mary sharpens her focus, a difficult task when her vision is usually blurred with a fuzzy vignette, and gapes at the man sitting beside her at the table. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Len pretends to be offended, rubbing a hand over his face. “Come on, I mean how is it possible to be Catholic and gay? Isn’t that a sin or something?”

“Stop being rude,” Mary scolds. She tucks her hair behind her ears and her elbows settle on the table.

“Love isn’t a sin,” Cas states, simple as that, all the joy and excitement gone from his voice.

There’s a grated sound, a chair scraping against the floor as Dean releases Cas’ hand and looks directly at Len, waiting for the challenge. Len is visibly shocked, though he tries to hide it by pulling his gaze away from Dean and over to Mary, who doesn’t look back. Dean knows his pale face must look terrified, but the only response to Cas’ declaration of love is the subtle, horrible clench of Len’s twitching jaw.

“Love, huh?” Len says as Dean counts his heartbeats, willing himself to stay calm. “That’s sweet.”

“I think it is,” Cas agrees, taking Dean’s hand back and not letting go. He won’t let Dean curl in on himself no matter how much he wants to.

Despite the slow widening of Len’s smile, Dean knows his stepfather won’t be giving up this easily. He’s acutely aware of Len’s foot finding his under the table, both a promise and a warning, a reminder that he’s irrevocably owned by the same man who fucks his mother.

They’re both touching him at the same time – his boyfriend and his father figure, each trying to tell him something privately to keep him settled. Dean can’t handle it.

“We should get going,” Dean says, voice shaking to match his frayed nerves. He pulls back but Cas holds his hand tight, keeps him close. Len rises too, but Dean is too rattled to question it. He thinks his entire skeleton might collapse inward if he moves too quickly, too hard.

“Oh, Castiel,” Mary says, waving her hand to catch his attention, “Dean mentioned it, but I forgot. What day is prom?”

Again, Len is startled by the onslaught of new, unwanted information. “Prom? I didn’t hear about that.”

“It’s still a couple weeks away,” Cas answers blandly, aware of the heightened tension in the room. “Not until the end of the month.”

“Will Dean need a tuxedo?”

Cas shakes his head and gives Mary another generous smile. “Just a tie and khakis, I think. I don’t plan on wearing a tux myself.”

Len is near them in an instant, draping an arm over Dean’s shoulder and speaking so closely against his skin that Dean can feel the heat of Len’s breath on his cheek. “Prom’s a special night, right Dean? We’ll get you something real special. No need to dress down on our behalf, Moneybags.” Len claps his hand against Cas’ shoulder with a laugh. “Dean cleans up damn fine, don’t you worry about that.”

Then, shrouded by Dean’s hoodie and delicate like misty rain, Len kisses Dean’s ear and licks him, tasting and claiming him all at once.

Cas is watching but didn’t see, not from where he’s standing. Dean heats from the sensation of the wetness on his ear, full of humiliation and shame, and wipes it off before he can stop himself. Len chuckles and scratches his stubble. “Sorry, did the whiskers get ya? I’m past due for a shave.”

There’s a long silence, too long to be anything but awkward before Mary says her goodbyes and Sam grunts from the table. Dean doesn’t look back at Len as he leaves, pulling Cas behind him, down the stairs and out into the cold air and comforting darkness.

His eyes are wide and pained, but all either of them can see at the moment are the puffs of clouds coming from between their lips as their eyes adjust to the night. He takes the precious minute of privacy to pull himself back together, to shake off the feeling of Len crawling deep inside him.

Cas looks at him warily, like he’s waiting for Dean to say something first. He doesn’t, choosing instead to head toward Cas’ truck.

“Hey, wait,” Cas says, but there’s no urgency in his voice. Concern, sure, but nothing alarming. He catches up and opens the door for Dean like a gentleman, and doesn’t say anything until they’re both buckled and the vents are heated up. “You okay?”

Dean can’t get the words out, not the ones he wants to say, so instead he nods and shrugs like it’s no big deal. It isn’t, to be honest. It could have gone so much worse.

Another pause, this one longer and more worrisome. “Can I ask you something?”

As if Dean really has a choice in the matter. “Sure.”

True to his reputation as a writer’s son, Cas measures his words carefully before speaking them. “Does Len…is he an okay guy? Is he…mean to you?”

What Dean wants is to excuse himself and walk through the neighborhood alone, sit in the abandoned park and stare up at the stars until a black hole swallows the Earth, but that would only make everything seem more suspicious. “What do you mean?”

Speaking slowly so that they both know Cas is being serious, he says, “It looked like…Dean, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

And suddenly Cas is every school counselor Dean had to see after his father’s death, every therapist who tried to get him to rat out his mother’s habits before they labeled the Winchesters a lost cause and stuck their file with the cobwebs.

“It’s not like that,” Dean says, though he’s not sure how to finish the sentence. “He just had too much to drink. Len’s a nice guy.”

He’s worried the robotic tone he used to deliver the lie will give him away, but Cas seems willing to accept it and drops the subject. “Still want to go to the arcade?”

“No,” Dean says immediately, still shaking. “I need – I want to go somewhere else. I want to kiss you.”

Cas smiles and blushes, noticeable even in the dark, and Dean steals a final glance at the duplex as they pull out of the driveway. The window is empty, but the sheers ripple like ghosts and he shutters with the eerie sensation of being watched.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, warnings/tags apply. Thanks for waiting, guys. Sorry it's taking me so long to get these out.

It hits him as he stares at his own reflection, just how green his eyes are.

The seafoam walls of the bathroom might have something to do with it, or the dying yellow light above the dirty mirror, but Dean doesn’t think his eyes have ever been quite this green before, this vivid.

It could be the suit he’s wearing; deep, twilight blue with threads of black woven into the fibers, or that he’d been crying not twenty minutes before, feeling unworthy of the new fabric and the tight fit. He’s used to seeing himself in layers of holey sweaters and thrift shop denim, hiding behind a monochrome wardrobe to avoid the limelight.

Here, in this form-fitting suit for prom, he can’t help but think of how much he looks like a man, and how much he looks like his mother. There’s not much left of John in his reflection these days, not with the freckles and Mary’s soft features looking back at him, but Dean’s a man now, alright. Even his hands look large without a wide wrist cuff and baggy sleeve to dwarf them.

He realizes belatedly that he’s being watched – too distracted by his own appearance to notice the second pair of eyes taking him in. Left with the choice between closing the door or letting Len in, Dean pulls his eyes away long enough to nudge the door open with his foot.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Len says, voice unusually timid. Dean thinks maybe he should be afraid, or feel something for being in a small room with his stepfather blocking the only exit, but instead he feels nothing. There’s a slight ache where that fear used to rest, an echo of that old familiar dread, but somehow that switch had been flipped and now there’s just…zilch.

He’d shrug, but he’s more afraid of hurting the suit than he is of being alone with Len, so he just shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“I’m happy for you,” Len starts, face twisted into something that could be mistaken for a smile. Dean bites the inside of his cheek. “I mean, you know – this is a rite of passage. This is when memories are made.”

For lack of anything better to say, Dean asks, “Do you remember yours?”

“Sure. The highlights, anyway. Went with a girl named…ah, hell, was it Susan?” He taps his finger against his chin. “Susie Whitwell. Sweet girl. She couldn’t dance for shit, but she kissed like a pro. And let me tell you, back in those days lipstick didn’t come with a non-smear guarantee. Stained my crisp-white trousers and I couldn’t wear them to church anymore.”

He nudges Dean with his elbow and laughs, but there’s something less-than-funny about his tone. Dean doesn’t want to provoke the lurking monster beneath Len’s skin, knows he shouldn’t, but the ache replacing the fear does little to stop him. “If she got her lipstick all over your pants, sounds like she couldn’t aim for shit either.”

Len’s smirk fades into something apologetic; the mood, whatever it had been before, shifts in a way that changes the ache in Dean’s chest from cold to hot. There’s a harmlessness to Len’s stance but Dean knows he’s going to end up feeling more guilty than not. He steps back, holds a hand up as if to stop Len from coming forward even though he doesn’t move. Len shakes his head and waves it off. “No, I’m – hey, you’re gonna have a good time.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. “I am.”

Len nods, and for a moment he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He shoves them into his pockets, thumbs hooking into his belt loops like an old cowboy. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am.”

It’s not really an apology, so Dean ignores it in favor of asking what for.

“Everything,” isn’t the response Dean was expecting, so he waits for an explanation, arms folded over his chest. “I shouldn’t have – I just – God, kiddo, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

The ache in his chest grows hotter, feels like it might melt through his ribcage before he can get the words out. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Len holds Dean’s gaze as he draws a hand over his heart and holds it there, pressure so light that it barely wrinkles the fabric of his shirt. “You make me so goddamn crazy, like…when I was your age, I swore I’d never let anyone get to me, you know. I hated everyone and I hated my pops most of all. I think that’s why I hit him with that shovel. Not just because I had to, Dean, but because I wanted to. He was evil and I thought the only thing that could stop him was more evil. Made me feel just like him when I knocked him down, like all that evil left his body and went inside me instead. That’s craziness. That’s what crazy is and you bring it out of me sometimes, and I just don’t know what to do with it.”

There’s no response Dean can say to that statement that would be correct; he’s not even sure if it warrants an answer, right or not. The heat in his chest rises, makes his neck sweat around his collar. It’s like he’s eight years old again and thinks prayer might still work, that maybe there’s an angel perched nearby and he’s not completely alone, not about to die like the snared rabbit he remembers he is.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, buddy.” Len looks away, eyes to the wall. It’s incredible how such a tiny movement can make Dean feel so much lighter, so much safer. “When I split your lip, it felt like I broke your mouth. I wanted – I had to fix it, but I didn’t know how – and you kept crawling away, and the blood was so much…I thought about holding you down and supergluing your lip back together.”

His fingers jump to his lip before he can stop them; Dean traces over the carefully knit skin still visible there, still palpable. He doesn’t want to think about Len sealing his mouth shut with glue, or how little sense that makes to begin with, so he stays quiet.

Len sees Dean touch his lips and shrinks back, closing his eyes. “I don’t know why I did it, Dean. I never wanted to hurt you like that. But you’re changing so much and it just slipped out of me. I’ll never do it again.”

There’s no point in agreeing or acknowledging. It will happen again regardless of the promises made, Dean knows. Maybe not on purpose, no matter how hard Len may try, he’s right; there’s some kind of twisted smoke in Len’s head that came from his father and there’s no letting it out without giving it somewhere else to go.

“Okay,” Dean says anyway, hand still partially covering his mouth.

“And this thing with that Catholic boy – Castiel, right? That’s okay too. I don’t like it and I think he’s a smug little prick just using you for what he thinks he can get from you, but you’re a kid and kids make mistakes. It’s, uh…all part of growing up, and one day you’ll look back and see that I was right. But sometimes experience is the only real teacher.”

Well, Dean certainly doesn’t feel like much of a man anymore. Sixteen is far too young to make sense of this, to see himself as clearly as he thought. “He’s not using me.”

Surprisingly, Len sighs and smiles fondly. “I know you think that now, but you’ll see.”

“What’s there to see?” Dean pushes, the ache in his chest growing larger, feeling more and more like spite. “I’m going to have a good time, like you said. He’s – this is what I want. I like him.”

“I know you do.” Len’s response comes so quickly that Dean realizes his stepfather is already several steps ahead, has carefully calculated his words before cornering him in the bathroom. “You see a cute guy who likes you and gives you gay little butterflies, right? You see a guy with a big family and warm values, and you think he’ll take you far away from this place and give you some kind of dream life that you don’t think you can build by yourself.”

Forgetting his determination to stand tall and unafraid of the man before him, Dean falters and steps back, hands balling into fists, chin trembling. He’d rather take the physical beating than this one.

“But what you don’t see is the obvious, kid. You don’t see that Castiel is older than you, that he’s going to college and will meet a beautiful girl that reminds him a little of you, and that he’ll bring her home to his family and make beautiful little Catholic babies with her. You’re a novelty to him, Dean. You’re his fun, religious rebellion in high school before he goes off and finds someone he can have a real life with. He’ll talk about you to his colleagues one day, how he fucked a pretty little twink with big lips before life got serious and he moved on. The only time your name will ever come up will be during drunken games of _Never Have I Ever_ and his friends will laugh at his hilarious confession.”

Dean’s cheeks are wet before he belatedly there are tears; he’s crying, his damn lip is trembling and he can’t stop how stupid he feels for showing so much weakness. Len has never been this cruel, this torturous. How can he cut Dean apart with such soft words? How can he suck the life from Dean’s lungs and still stand there like nothing has changed?

“You’ll have fun. You will. You’ll make memories just like I said, and for a night you’ll forget how much pain there is inside of you and I want you to have that. But when the fun is over and Castiel leaves you behind, I’ll still be here. I hate that I hurt you, Dean. I feel like this whole mess with Castiel is my fault, but I’ll help you pick up the pieces when he’s gone and you’ll see that I’m the only person in your world who even cares that you exist.”

Then, as if Dean isn’t crying and cupping his palms over his eyes to hide his humiliation, Len moves forward and takes a small bottle of cologne out of his pocket. It’s blue and dark like Dean’s suit, and after Len lightly spritzes each of Dean’s shoulders, he pulls him in for a hug.

Dean feels so much worse when he leans into it, instinctively searching for comfort.

“Here,” Len whispers, his voice a gentle caress. He tucks something into the pocket of Dean’s suit before bringing his hand up to rub Dean’s back. “Have a blast, kid. Go a little crazy if you want. And text me if you’re going to be out past midnight. And for fuck’s sake, be safe.”

Len pulls away before Dean is ready to let go. He stands there feeling empty and untethered, horrified by his own neediness and how quickly that ache reverted to a well of murky, rising fear. Len is gone before Dean can even take his first breath, before he can settle his nerves, and the new weight in his pocket is so daunting that he doesn’t know if he should even check to see what it is.

He jerks his eyes back to his reflection, red-rimmed and swollen from tears anew, eyes greener than before. He shoves a hand in his pocket before he can talk himself out of it, and he feels the papery edges of a wad of cash. Dean doesn’t know how much, and he doesn’t want to count. He feels strangely like he’s just been bought and for some reason, knowing for how much would make it that much worse.

He’s not a man. His reflection shows him the same face he’d seen before, but now Dean can see it for what it is. He’s still a child, still helpless. He’s inherited more from Mary than just her looks and there’s nothing in the world he can do about it.

҉     ҉     ҉

Prom is everything Dean expected it to be; the entertainment industry prepared him well for this one. The gymnasium is decorated and glittering, spun with threads of shimmering tinsel and tulle in every available corner. There are tables draped in white and chairs with oversized bows, and every girl that filters in through the propped-open doors is wearing something beautiful and bright. There are flowers on their hands and braids in their hair, and the boys look equal parts excited and proud to be seen with their partners.

The singles are having just as much fun, dancing with friends or grouped around the buffet table and making jokes. The chaperones – mostly teachers and a few parents – are lined along the side of the dance floor and not really paying much attention. They’re talking to each other and reminiscing about their own dances, giggling at the lack of dance skills some of the students are too proud to be showing off.

And Cas, true to his word, is dressed in a modest button-up with a baby blue tie that matches his eyes, and damn. It makes Dean look overdressed.

But the entire thing is so much more fun than Dean thought it would be. He’s too shy to dance, still a little shaken up from his encounter with Len before Cas showed up and kissed him at the door. He thought he’d end up sitting at one of the tables the entire time while people gave him strange looks, but everyone is so caught up in their own evening of fun that they don’t notice Dean at all.

There’s a predictable pattern in the music as well. For every four pop songs that students shake their asses to and laugh about, a slow song comes on and the couples pile onto the dance floor. Dean goes along with Cas to every one, letting his head rest on his boyfriend’s shoulder while they step in tandem in small circles. The love songs are all from earlier decades, oldies but goodies, and though there’s nothing from Dean’s favorite era there’s plenty of K-Ci & JoJo to keep his and Cas’ chest close.

When the next slow song comes on, Cas tugs on Dean’s hand with a sly smile on his face, but Hannah steps in and smacks her brother’s hand away, giving him a wink. Dean startles, watches as Cas rolls his eyes before kissing Dean on the cheek and walking toward to the punch bowl. He waits for Hannah to lead him – shameful, he thinks, to wait on another person to tell him what to do – but he just stands there and lets Hannah look him over before guiding him beneath the star-patterned lights.

Dean doesn’t recognize the song, it’s something new and high pitched, but Hannah doesn’t give him the freedom to ponder it. She holds him closely, almost intimately, and when her hands land on the back of Dean’s neck, he clutches her wrists and pushes them down to his shoulders.

She thankfully doesn’t comment on it.

He’s about to tell Hannah that he’d rather sit this one out – not because of her, though he can’t lie about the nausea curling in his stomach from his neck being touched – but he keeps his lips pinned when she starts talking.

“You and my twin look especially cute tonight,” she says, her dress twirling softly around her ankles. “You’re the most adorably gross couple here.”

Dean wants to laugh, and maybe it’s because of recent events, but he’s awfully tired of hearing how gross he is. “Thanks, I think.”

“I wish I could say the same about Alfie and his date,” Hannah groans, darting a glance over to where Alfie is sucking face with his new girlfriend. “She’s not good enough for him.”

“Isn’t that how all older siblings feel?”

“Sometimes.” Hannah keeps her hands where Dean placed them, curled over the curve of Dean’s shoulders. It looks a little strange but she doesn’t complain, not about that. “I wanted to think that about you, too, but you’re a little sweetheart, aren’t you?”

Dean avoids the question by searching through the crowd for Cas, but can’t find him. Hannah doesn’t look away. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a nice kid.” She says. She almost looks annoyed that she has to explain it. “I’m honestly just so glad that you and Cas found each other. He found someone so nice and I’m just…give me a break, Dean, you know what I’m trying to say. You have my seal of approval, or whatever.”

“Oh,” Dean swallows, unsure of how to feel about that. He’d forgotten how much the Edlund family’s approval meant to him, how badly he wanted to fit in. Between Cas and Alfie, and apparently Hannah, Dean doesn’t think he’d have anything else.

“The universe really sucks sometimes, but I think you and my brother were meant for each other.”

“Thank you?” Dean doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it does. Hannah laughs and her hands make their way back to Dean’s neck, her thumbs dangerously close to his collar bones.

Her casual touch brings him sharply back to the present, attention drawn away from the happy thrum of the crowd and inward toward the spiders in his belly, crawling around and making him sick. He wants to shove her but can’t, wants to cry but keeps it in.

“Are you okay?” Hannah’s voice is blunt and loud, even through the music and the chatter. Dean’s eyes keep searching but now he doesn’t know what for; there are doors he could leave through, or maybe Cas will finally pop up in his periphery and he can run toward him, hide in his arms. Hannah’s grip tightens and it feels like he’s being choked.

Mercifully, the song ends and segues into something fast, something he doesn’t care about. He wiggles out of Hannah’s grip and backs away until he’s off the dance floor and his back is against the wall. He doesn’t have time to think about how pathetic he is, how overly dramatic and childish his reaction is to being touched by unfamiliar hands before Cas is there, in his space, closing around him.

Such a thin shield Cas is, like the blanket between a child and the monster in the closet, and yet he clings to Cas and closes his eyes and wills the monsters away.

“What happened?” Cas asks, and Hannah is there too, an apology in her eyes. Cas glares at her with more than just brotherly annoyance, and Dean can feel his wedge-shaped insecurities pushing them apart. He tries to tell Cas that it’s not her fault, she’s done nothing wrong, but Hannah is quick to defend herself and beats him to the punch.

“She’s right,” Dean manages, and somehow his fingers are laced between Cas’, their temples touching like they’re dancing again. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re scared,” Cas says. When Dean looks up, he can see the gears working in is boyfriend’s head, all the scenarios playing through his mind until one finally clicks. Dean’s gut sinks when he makes the connection, when he’s certain he knows which conclusion Cas has settled on. “Are they here?”

“No,” Dean insists, shaking his head. He tries to move backwards but remembers he’s against the wall. “No, I told you. They aren’t students. They’re not here.”

Cas doesn’t believe him, Dean can tell. His jaw works and his eyes fall shut, and Dean doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to convince him. He thinks maybe Cas never believed him in the first place, never truly thought Dean’s bruises came from faceless men that they’d never run into, never see again.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean offers, leaning close. He’s doing his best to promise something better if they go with only the tone of his voice and his body language, but it takes a full minute for Cas to catch up. He’s still angry, still looking around for bullies who don’t exist. “Please,” Dean adds, knowing how well that one works. It does.

Cas finally nods, planting another kiss on Dean’s forehead before backing up enough to give Dean space to walk. “Okay, yeah.”

It is a strange scramble out; Hannah left shameful and gawking at her own confusion, at the guilt she feels but knows she doesn’t deserve. They don’t stop to tell Alfie they are leaving, to say goodbye. Dean sees him from the edge of the room, one foot out the door, his friend kissing a pretty girl so freely that Dean wonders at the ease of it, at whether he’ll do the same with Cas once they are far and gone from here.

The cash is his pocket is still there, heavy and uncounted, and Dean doesn’t want to spend it. He wants to be alone, or alone with Cas somewhere safe. In the little black truck, the strange accessory that made its way into Dean’s life and settled like furniture, it feels like a second home. He buckles and closes his eyes, forcing the world to disappear, and listens only to the rumble of the engine as the truck starts and pulls away.

“You won’t tell me what happened, will you?” Cas’ voice cuts through the dull silence, and Dean brings the world back when he opens his eyes and shakes his head.

“Does it matter?” Dean asks, terrified of how genuinely he means the question. “It’s not what you think.”

Cas looks uncomfortable, alien in his own skin, clearly not used to being confronted with half-truths and defiance. “Did Hannah say something to you?”

“Yes,” Dean admits, and for a moment he wonders if her words frightened him more than her touch. “She said the universe is a terrible place, but you and I are good together.”

Cas is careful to stay within the speed limit, taking a few chances with some yellow lights but otherwise being cautious. It’s not clear what he’s thinking, but Dean has stopped being scared of those strange looks. They’re rarely bad, and never come with consequences. “Is that why you panicked? Are you…you don’t think we’re good together?”

“No,” Dean says, but backpedals when he realizes Cas misunderstands the answer, when his face scrunches up in pain. “That’s not why, I mean. She said nice things, and that was it. There was a lot of people in there, okay? You know I don’t – it’s not my thing. It’s your thing, so I went, but I guess I reached my limit.”

“Oh,” is the tormented response Dean hears, when Cas takes full blame for putting Dean in this position.

Dean is still anxious, still feeling touched and dirty, but he’s so tired of the fragile way the Edlund family holds him. He hates that they think of him as some kind of thinly blown glass that could shatter, like Dean hasn’t taken a good beating and lived through it, like he hasn’t been dropped and kicked around his whole life.

Naturally Cas would take responsibility for Dean’s fuck ups, for something that would have never happened unless Dean was already broken.

“I had fun,” Dean tries to add, voice lighter, but Cas sees through him fairly easily. Unconvinced, Cas makes the turn that will bring Dean back to his shitty duplex, back to Len, and with the same desperation he used before he adds, “the night doesn’t have to end, does it?”

It’s obvious how immediate the change is in Cas; he shifts in his seat, grips the wheel, the gears in his head turning as he thinks about where they could go, what they could do. “We never did go to the arcade,” Cas says, and Dean laughs.

“No we didn’t.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Cas asks, loosening up, letting go of the tight anger in his chest. He gives Dean a smile when they’re stopped at a red light.

“Or…” Dean starts, but doesn’t know how to phrase what he wants. There’s only so many times he can sound desperate in a row without it becoming obvious and sad. “We could _not_ go to the arcade again.”

Cas reaches for Dean but stills, hand pausing before it reaches Dean’s neck. He drops it between them, filling the empty space, palm open in invitation. “Sounds good to me.”

҉     ҉     ҉

By the time they’re parked at Carver’s campsite, nestled between the burgeoning trees with the windows rolled down enough to hear the mild squall of late spring, Dean is a mess of need and longing. Cas is sprawled beneath him, clothes on and legs spread, hands careful not to roam far from Dean’s waist.

But Dean is uncomfortably hard in his suit, and the ache in his chest feels dulled and abated with every groan he pulls from Cas’ lips. He feels so human now, wanted in the purest way by the blue-eyed virgin beneath him, and as much as he wants to pretend he’s in full control of himself, Dean knows he isn’t.

So he tells Cas to touch him; not in the hesitant way he usually does, not commanding and full of force like Len, but he wants to give Cas a little more of what he wants, what they both want.

After a moment’s pause, Cas’ hands slide up Dean’s sides and over his chest, then slowly rake down over the soft skin of his belly. Dean shudders and gasps, surging forward to kiss him again and lick into his mouth, steady and deep. He doesn’t stop until Cas’ chest is heaving, breath erratic, heart thudding so hard that Dean can feel it through the thick fabric of their shirts.

He pulls his mouth away long enough to moan against Cas’ ear, hot breath warming his skin. Cas makes a small, wrecked noise that fills the truck, too lost in the moment to feel embarrassed or ashamed. He’s just as hard as Dean is, straining against his pants in a way that must be painful, but his hands are free to explore in a way they’ve never been before and he’s taking advantage of it, holding Dean close, gripping him tight when the sensations become too much.

“God, you – Dean…so good.” Cas’ breathy, jilted declarations keep spilling from his mouth, words strung together and plucked off one by one when he has his moments of clarity between hungry kisses. They make Dean smile, though he tries to hide it by burying his face in Cas’ neck, by unbuttoning Cas’ shirt and kissing down until he’s just over the breastbone.

He lifts his head up to reclaim Cas’ mouth, but stops when he sees that Cas’ eyes are closed.

That ugly feeling rises within Dean so quickly that he doesn’t know what to do with it; he bites his tongue, shoves it back down, but can’t resist the urge to keep Cas in the moment, to make him see. “Look at me,” Dean says, a sharp command.

Cas’ eyes flutter open and it’s the hottest thing Dean has ever seen. Staring back at him are lust filled, half crazy eyes begging for more, ones that are every bit as desperate and needy as Dean feels.

If Dean is only going to be a memory for this guy, a name mentioned only around the water cooler, then he’s damn well going to be a good one – the best memory Cas will ever have.

He backs up slowly, maintaining eye contact and licking his lips when Cas whines at the loss of Dean’s body weight. He sees the confusion first, then the hope, and finally a shock of understanding when Dean settles between Cas’ legs and starts on his belt.

“Dean,” Cas says, ruined and conflicted the way Dean wants him to be, “you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Dean insists, and he truly does. He wants to make Cas feel good, wants to give him this amazing gift before it can be taken or tarnished. “Fuck, please, let me.”

Cas’ head falls back and hits the window, eyes never leaving Dean’s, and then he nods.

Cas is visibly nervous, hands trembling slightly where they rest on his stomach, fingers spreading like he’s unsure whether to help Dean unfasten his belt or not. His cheeks are flushed pink and he keeps biting his lip, and for a moment Dean remembers what that feels like: the uncertainty, the fear that he won’t be good enough, the urge to be still and let it all happen the way the other person wants.

Dean slows his movements. He doesn’t want to scare Cas or make him feel insecure. That’s not what this is. The control, the fear and all the jealousy seem to fade and Dean wants to do this _with_ him, not _to_ him. He takes Cas’ hand and brings it to his hair, encouraging, and motions for Cas to help him push down his pants.

And when his pants are down to mid-thigh, one hand still softly pulling on Dean’s hair, Dean mouths at the outline of Cas’ swollen cock through his tight white underwear, making him twitch and pull Dean’s hair a little harder.

“Sorry,” Cas blurts, pulling his hand back immediately and looking horrified. Dean brings it back, but holds it against his cheek this time instead.

“Don’t be,” Dean assures him. Cas cradles the side of his face with reverence, thumb stroking over Dean’s cheekbone beneath his lashes. “You can hold my head if you want, but you don’t have to.”

“I like this,” Cas says in answer, keeping his hand where it is. He brushes his fingers over Dean’s ear and into the smoothness of his hairline. “I love you.”

So overwhelmed by the moment, Dean can only respond by hooking his fingers into Cas’ waistband and freeing him from his underwear. Cas sucks in a breath and Dean can feel his eyes on him, watching.

Dean gives a tentative stroke; Cas is already leaking precome, and Dean is surprised at how silky and similar it feels to his own. Cas’ free hand grips the seat when Dean’s tongue flicks out and licks a wide stripe over the head, then lightly sucks at the tip. Cas is already stuttering out compliments and Dean has barely started, barely got a taste.

And Cas tastes _good_ , which is just as much of a surprise as the way Cas feels in his hand. Dean might be experienced in this area, but certainly not from variety. He could always smell Len’s arousal like this, heady and overpowering, but Dean swears he can feel the difference in such a visceral way that he loves it, that his mouth is watering for more. He sinks lower in a smooth glide down Cas’ cock and hollows his cheeks, excited, his own dick so hard that it borders on painful.

He moans around the mouthful, swallows, letting the weight and the bitter, musky taste fill his senses until he’s all the way down, throat filled, lips pressed to hot skin. Cas hits his head against the window a second time, an involuntary jerk like the pleasure is almost too much, so Dean pulls up slowly and sinks back down in a careful tempo, easing him into it.

But Cas is already a shaking mess, fists clenched and breath coming faster than before, and Dean knows he needs to slow it down, make it last. He pulls off and grips the base, giving it a few tugs while he kisses Cas’ hips, letting him cool down and regain a little control. Dean doesn’t want this to be over too fast for Cas, wants him to live in the moment for as long as he can, but as soon as Cas stops shaking enough to relax and take a few deep breaths, Dean swallows him down again in one go and doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t know why – the same compliments come babbling from Cas’ lips, and though Dean hears them just as well as he did before, they sound different. They’re laced with something darker, and then all Dean can hear are the cruel taunts of his stepfather, the cries of the infants Cas will give to some faceless, religious woman in the future, and he lets all the years of his training take over.

Men like it when they can feel a tight throat around the tip of their cocks, but they like it even better when a throat can swallow the whole thing. Dean closes his eyes and takes in everything, as deep as Cas will go, and he bobs his head in a relentless rhythm that doesn’t leave much room for air. He goes so long without breathing that his heart is pounding for a different reason before pulling off and choking on the air he sucks in.

Cas tries clutching at Dean’s face but Dean pushes him away and goes back down, proving he can do this, that he can give the best suckjob Cas will ever have. He’s not a joke, dammit, he’s good at this and Cas will see, Cas will remember –

“Hey,” he hears, distantly at first but louder when Cas shakes him, pushes him off. Dean wipes at his mouth and feels unshed tears burning in his eyes; Cas is still hard, he hasn’t come yet, but he’s literally pushing Dean away from him. He’s done something wrong, wasn’t good enough.

“Dean,” Cas says, smiling but with hesitation, uncertainty. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean promises, afraid to disappoint. Whatever he did wrong, he can fix it. He can do better. “I can keep going. I’m good.”

But Cas just keeps staring at him, his smile fading but replaced with renewed heat in his cheeks. “Sure, but, you looked – uh, I liked it better before.” He barely manages to get the words out as he breaks eye contact, looking down at his lap as if that’s any better. “I don’t want to…I mean, am I hurting you? I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dean wonders if it’s possible to die from confusion. “You’re not hurting me.”

“Okay,” Cas nods, and when he brings his eyes back up to meet Dean’s, he looks like he’s been holding back tears of his own. Dean honestly doesn’t know what to make of that, how to process it. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt, I guess? And it seemed like you were…you know, choking. A lot.”

“You don’t like that?”

“In pornos, I guess,” Cas awkwardly laughs, one hand gently squeezing Dean’s shoulder. Dean still doesn’t understand the difference, so he ignores the comment in favor of tilting his head to kiss Cas’ hand. “What you were doing before was good. When it was slow.”

Whatever Cas wants, he’ll do.

He obeys without a second thought. No use in trying to make sense of it – slow and steady has never won the race before, no matter what those children’s fables like to say.  But he could tell Cas softened a bit during their uncomfortable talk, and though Dean knows it’s his fault, he can just as easily be the remedy.

He guides Cas’ hands back to his head, gently, and returns to the steady pace he’d set before.

It’s amazing how much of a difference there is, how much more Dean likes it this way too. He can actually taste Cas, can feel every jerk and twitch of his cock against his tongue. Cas unravels so slowly, so gradually that it seems like he’s on the edge of orgasm for ages before he finally spills down Dean’s throat, gasping and sweating, legs shaking, fingers threaded tightly in Dean’s hair.

Dean pulls back just enough to catch the last of it on his tongue, letting it sit hot and sticky in his mouth as he sinks down slowly one last time, loving the way Cas’ whole body trembles and the squeaky moan of surprise he tries to hand behind his palm.

“Whoa,” Cas breathes, wiping his forehead as he takes a deep breath. Dean tucks him back in but leaves his pants undone, liking the way he looks like some pretentiously disheveled model in an underwear spread. “That was…wow.”

Despite Dean’s humiliation at having done wrong, at losing himself to his insecurities and making the memory more awkward and unfortunate than it had to be, he allows himself to accept the praise and bask in it.

It kills him to think of Cas with anyone else; absolutely guts him. But Cas isn’t the only one who gets to keep these memories – Dean’s going to keep this one close, lock it away safe where no one can get their dirty fingers on it.

There’s a strange sense of pride, too, knowing he’s the first one to see Cas like this, to taste him and watch him break apart in all the best ways. That’s something he gets to keep forever, no matter what Cas does with anyone else.

Dean shoves those thoughts away, not wanting to ruin the moment. Cas is pulling him closer, so he goes. He lets himself be hauled up and held, even kisses back when Cas presses their lips together and tells him he’s great, he’s perfect, he’s wonderful.

And suddenly that hollow ache inside of him _hurts_.

It hurts so bad that when Cas asks to return the favor – begs, really – Dean has to say no. He shakes his head and he feels the pain sharpen, sink deeper into his soul, and he’s filled with such a terrible sense of dread that he thinks he might vomit.

It’s too urgent to be sadness, too all-consuming to just be fear.

“Love you,” Cas whispers into the empty space around them.

Dean swallows, able to catch his breath as the words help fight the panic and keep him grounded. He doesn’t know why it helps, but it does, so he asks Cas to say it again.

“I love you, Dean.”

Dean steals a moment to rub his jaw, hiding the tremors building up in his body by pretending to be sore. “Cas,” he starts, ashamed of how much his voice is still wavering, “I love you too.”

And then Cas is cradling him, stroking steady hands down his back and arms, and it’s all so fucking sincere that Dean can barely stand it. Cas’ affection has always been such a bewildering problem, but he finds himself responding with hesitant touches of his own.

They’re tracing each other, following the natural curve of their outlines, and Dean’s never felt so upside-down in his life.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long I almost forgot how to update and post a chapter.  
> Chapters will be posted more regularly now.  
> The trade off is that I have less time to edit the chapters and make sure they're all squeaky clean and perfect before I post them, so I hope you guys are okay with any mistakes you find for now. I'll eventually go back through and clean it up, unless you guys see any major mistakes that need fixing asap.  
> Thank you guys for all the words of encouragement and love. Another chapter will be coming soon.

“You ever wonder how many drug deals have happened here?” Bela asks. She twists her feet in the dirt and lets the tire swing spin, hair twirling around her face. “Or how many people have fucked right where you’re sitting? I bet this place is a regular hot spot when the sun goes down.”

Dean glances around the park, at the broken swings and old wooden bridges peppered with holes and bird nests. The merry-go-round doesn’t spin, so rusted that even the colors have faded and it tilts to one side, the edge of it flirting with the gravel beneath.

He lays back in the patchy grass near Bela’s feet, arms crossed behind his head. “I doubt it. This place is the stuff of nightmares when it’s dark.”

“And yet here we are, wasting time as the sun goes down,” Bela says, digging her toes in the dirt to stop the swing. She looks down at Dean with a smirk. “Do you think that makes us the type of people mothers warn their children about? Creeps who hang out at abandoned parks at night? Or are we the unsuspecting victims of a murder yet to happen?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You sure like your narratives, don’t you?”

Bela ignores him. “Imagine the headlines. If someone kills us here, I hope they position our bodies in some cultish way that makes people talk. Maybe he’s watching us right now, trying to decide what to do with our skulls once he’s had his fun.”

“You watch way too many movies,” Dean chides, kicking the tire and sending her spinning. She giggles and tries not to fall, clinging to the chain links hard enough to leave her knuckles white. “Besides, if anything killed us here, it’d probably be Tetanus.”

“That’s boring.”

“So is this park, and yet here we are,” Dean smiles, annoying Bela with her own words.

Bela slows to a stop, as does the smile on her face. The wind picks up and blows through her flimsy t-shirt, making her shiver. She squints at the distance and frowns. “Fucking South Dakota.”

Dean doesn’t know much about being chivalrous, but he figures the kind thing to do would be to offer her his sweater. She’d refuse it if he asked, so instead he sits up and pulls it off over his head, tossing it to her without a word. She glares at it but puts it on.

“The least you could do is buy hoodies with better band logos,” she says. Dean shrugs. He recognizes a Thank You when he hears it.

Dean feels the chill pretty fast and momentarily regrets being a gentleman, but Bela pulls the hood over her head and tucks her arms and legs into the oversized body of the hoodie. She’s stretching it out that way, but he doesn’t mind. Girl doesn’t even have a front door.

“I saw your mom the other day,” she says, looking down at him with an indescribable look. She lifts an eyebrow and waits for him to speak. When he doesn’t, she pats his head the same way you’d pat an old dog. He bats her hand away.

“Okay, and?”

“And…nothing, I guess. She bought a gram off my dad and he blew the money on a bunch of old movies instead of getting me a jacket. I’ve seen enough Eastwood to last a lifetime.”

Dean feels his heart stutter in his chest, his fingertips going numb. He tries to blame it on the cold, but he knows better. “Len likes Eastwood too. Must be something in the water.”

“Too bad it’s nothing good. Of all the movies in the world, why the ones that make such little sense? I mean, sure, Clint was a cutie in his prime, but that can’t be why they’re watching those awful movies.”

“Classic Americana, I guess.”

“And what’s so great about America?” Bela growls, shifting awkwardly on the warped tire. She stretches her arms out wide, yelling, “Thank you, tax dollars, for giving us this wonderful child-like graveyard of a playground, in which we can bury our dreams beside our dead parents.”

Someone across the street yells at Bela to shut up. She tells them to fuck themselves and gives them her middle finger.

Dean’s had about enough of Bela’s morbid mind, but as he rises to leave he realizes he’d rather listen to Bela talk about dead parents and serial killers than go home and listen to Len call him beautiful.

Her eyes widen when she sees him stand, but soften once he tells her to move so they can share the tire swing. The chains are cold and the tire is hard but Bela’s smile makes up for it.

“You still haven’t told me how your mom died,” Dean tries, feeling strangely sentimental.

“Neither have you.”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. “Come on, Bela. I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” she quips, leaning in closer. “Her body might be working, but we both know she’s dead inside. Why else would parents like ours parade around in their meat-suits, brains whirling higher than the goddamn moon?”

For a moment, Dean thinks he could punch this girl in the face, knock her backward off the swing so hard that her shoes fly, but he doesn’t. He can’t, for some reason. He hates the things she says but only because they’re so agonizingly true. “You have a real way with words, Bela.”

“As do you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “I barely say anything at all.”

“Precisely,” Bela whispers, leaning in close. Dean can feel the heat from her lips when she talks. “I talk all the time and manage to say nothing, but your silence speaks volumes, don’t you think?”

A chill runs down Dean’s back like she’s spilled ice water down his shirt with her words and froze his spine. He hates this game they play, where they both know what they’re talking about but refuse to acknowledge it. It’s such a terrible infection to know you have so much in common with another person, another soul on the crowded planet, but can’t speak about why.

“See,” She says, leaning away and taking the heat of her body with her. “Your mouth is closed but you’ve said more truth than I do with a thousand of my pointless words.”

It’s quiet between them for a while, but not uncomfortable. They take turns rocking the swing, Bela staring up at the sky or maybe the creaking wooden beam supporting their weight. By the look on her face, she’s daring either of them to fail; the beam to send them crashing into the ground, or the sky, to send Earth plummeting through space with the stars whizzing by like bullets.

Sometimes he thinks there’s no difference between them, that he and Bela are both doomed to the same fate. But it’s times like now, when Bela seems so utterly hopeless – or rather, that she’s hopeful for the end of all hope, that death will take her away from that inevitable disappointment, that Dean knows they are different in one small, pivotal way.

“It gets better, Bela.” Dean offers. “It has to.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “You’ve told me before, darling. The power of love.” Her accent is suddenly thicker, almost drawn out. “I don’t think I’m capable of love.”

“I thought that too,” Dean reminds her. “I didn’t think I’d love anyone or anything. I was broken.”

“And then Castiel revived your poor heart and now you’re a real boy with real feelings and a future.”

The sun is gone and they’re staring at each other by dim starlight, but Dean sticks his tongue out at her anyway. Childish, maybe, but who cares. “I just mean…we won’t be kids forever, right?”

Bela’s lip trembles, and Dean wonders if it was something he said, or didn’t say. They haven’t known each other long, not in the conventional sense, but when they lounge around together like this it feels like maybe they’ve always known each other, a pair of recycled souls.

“Bells!” A man calls, and both their heads turn toward the noise. A timeworn, balding man stands at the edge of the playground, dressed in secondhand business attire and lightly sweating.

Bela mutters under her breath, starts tugging at Dean’s sweater to pull it off. He tries to help her, but she elbows him and frowns. The man must be Bela’s father, he thinks, though he’s never seen the man before now.

“Hurry up, kid,” her father scowls impatiently, giving Dean a passing, uninterested glance. Dean realizes that Bela’s father has no trace of a British accent. If anything, from the few words he’s spoken, he sounds local.

“See you later,” Dean says, taking his sweater back and pulling it over his head, blocking out the cold. Bela says nothing, just walks slowly towards her father as defiantly as she can. It’s almost awful to see, knowing the defiance is meaningless, knowing it’s merely a show she’s putting on for Dean’s sake at her own expense.

He knows from experience.

It’s late, late enough that even Bela’s father had to come fetch her from their hiding place, and Dean knows Len is probably still up and waiting for him at home. He doesn’t want to go, but they have school in the morning and the remains of his homework are still on the table, unfinished. Bela has been a first for Dean in many ways, but he never expected he’d find someone that gave him the same excuse homework has. Something to occupy his time and distract him during the week, a justification for not being home on a weekday.

But trudge home he does; it’s not getting any warmer outside and the sooner he finishes his homework, the sooner he can go to bed and wake up and see Bela and Cas again. Walking to school in the morning is actually fun now with some talkative company, and the little shell-like world Dean had crawled into had been slowly expanding, bubbling out to include more than just math and tears and sex.

The end of the school year is getting close, too. Cas will be graduating and Dean will finally be an upperclassman.

Inside, as expected, Len is the only one home. Dean is starting to think both his mother and brother found somewhere else to live, or have both become experts at avoiding the things that make them uncomfortable. He never considered running away to be a good coping skill, but lately the idea is looking pretty appealing.

He used to know where Sam slept, which friends he was closest to, but these days he feels like Sam is just another person lingering along the edges of his consciousness. He’s kind of there, but not really. Dean doesn’t know where he goes or who he sees, what his grades are like or how he’s passing the time.

Dean’s not too weak to admit he misses his little brother. Wishes he could see him more.

His mother – well, Dean hasn’t thought much about her these days. There’s a difference between love and respect, and he knows he stopped respecting her a long time ago, but he’s starting to wonder if his apathy is filling the space where his love for her used to be.

Len is at the table, picking off the last of the leftovers with a beer. He watches Dean kick off his shoes and tells him to sit at the table with him.

Dean thinks of Bela, and does as he’s told.

“Been spending a lot of time at the playground, kiddo.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, stopping himself from shrugging.

“Weird, isn’t it? Like when you were spending too much time with Bobby and those junkers.” Len shoves a spoonful of whatever is on his plate in his mouth, and it makes a wet, disgusting noise.

“If you say so.”

Len pauses to lick his lips and take a deep breath. His eyes are drawn to Dean’s lips, to his hands, and he makes a move to put his leg against Dean’s under the table before Dean pulls away.

Surprisingly, Len doesn’t chase after him the way he normally would.

“When I was your age, my family had horses,” Len says, dropping the spoon to the table. He leans back in his chair and stretches his arms. “Did I ever tell you that?”

Dean sighs. “Yes.”

“Lots of ‘em. Not a ranch, but something close to it. On my mom’s side, lots of her kin had horses and made a living breakin’ them in for ranchers who didn’t know what they were doing.”

The clock on the wall tick, tick, ticks. At least this story is better than the one about the shovel.

But Len at looks at Dean with something new, something fiery in his eyes. Len has never failed to make Dean squirm with just his stare, but it isn’t squirming that Dean feels the urge to do. It’s running. “You’re a smart kid, Dean. I bet you know the answer to this; do you know how to break in a horse?”

His mouth feels dry and his skin pebbles, but he shakes his head. Len isn’t balding and sweating like Bela’s father, he’s leaner and muscled and has already proven he can take Dean down in a fight.

“See, people brought their unruly horses to my aunt. They couldn’t figure out why their damn thoroughbred beauty wouldn’t listen. They’d expose their horses to their fears, show ‘em who’s boss, but it wasn’t enough. You know why it wasn’t enough?”

Dean shakes his head again. He’s heard about Len’s family, about his mother’s side and the horses they owned but nothing quite like this. Strangely, he feels stupid for not knowing more about this; they live in the Midwest, after all. Might technically be bear country where they’re at, but plenty of the rich kids at school got their very own ponies when they asked for one. Walking blonde clichés.

Len finds Dean’s leg under the table he grabs it, firmly, fingertips digging into the dimples of Dean’s knee. “In order to properly train a horse, you have to understand what the horse wants. Once you show it that traffic and people aren’t scary, it’ll stop being afraid. But once you teach the horse to be ridden, it actually loves being taken for a ride. It learns to love the work its told to do. People forget that it’s not just enough to punish the horse, you have to also reward it for doing a job well done.”

The hand on Dean’s knee slides a little further up and a thumb presses gently against his inner thigh. “I thought I had you broken in, son. But I realize now I’ve been making a grave mistake. I’ve been punishing you without rewarding you. I forgot that you loved to be ridden.”

Len is out of his chair in an instant, his hand on Dean’s crotch and his mouth searching for purchase against Dean’s lips.

But Dean isn’t a goddamn horse, and he sure as hell isn’t about to be ridden like one.

“Fuck off!” Dean barks, shoving at Len’s arms and face. He falls backward in the chair and his head hits the floor with a sickening thud that leaves him dizzy. Len tries to help him up, but Dean rolls away and scrambles back to his feet.

Len steps closer but Dean makes a move for the door. Len blocks him off easily, trapping him in the apartment, but he doesn’t reach for Dean again. He just stands there, a formidable wall, smiling and unrelenting.

“Horses are loyal creatures, Dean. Dumb as rocks, but loyal. But you’re not dumb, are you?”

Dean says nothing, but he doesn’t have to.

Len smirks. He steps aside and for a moment, Dean thinks he might have hit his head harder than he thought. Len isn’t blocking the door anymore, but sitting back down to finish his food. “You can leave if you want to, kid. You might even find a place to sleep that isn’t outside. Maybe Castiel will pick you up, or that funny little girl you’ve been hanging out with. I won’t stop you. But you’ve got a warm bed waiting for you just down that hallway, don’t you?”

The doorway is clear. He could leave. He could run and never come back. It wouldn’t be the first time, but maybe he could make it the last. Dean ran all the way to Bobby’s place not that long ago, and he knows the Edland family would put a roof over his head if he asked.

But shame gurgles in his gut, making him feel sick.

He remembers all the reasons why he stays. He knows Sam would never come back here, or if he did, Len might do something awful. Mary would cry and drink – and God, what if she finally drank too much all because Dean was selfish? What if she drank herself to death, thinking Dean hated her or abandoned her? Poisoning her body after Dean poisons her heart?

Dean doesn’t dare call it loyalty, even if that’s what it is, but he slinks away from the door and retreats to his bedroom. He doesn’t bother finishing his homework, doesn’t bother with excuses for his teachers the next day at school. His grades have slipped a bit already, but it doesn’t matter. With the way things are going, he’ll live and die in this apartment despite the open door policy they pretend exists.

҉     ҉     ҉

Spring is officially here, flowers and all, and the school year is almost over.

Dean is out to lunch with Becky and her boys while Carver is out of state with Hannah, taking a tour of her favorite college potentials.

They’re at the same restaurant Cas took them on their first date, and again Dean orders the mushroom-swiss burger. It’s not his favorite, but it’s the classiest looking burger on the menu and he’s still uncomfortable ordering anything more than ten bucks. Cas gets a bacon burger this time and Dean feels a little less strange, though it’s pretty funny watching Cas devour a burger as if no greater food has ever existed.

“Hannah wants to go to Michigan State,” Becky frowns, but Dean recognizes the look on her. It’s not real sadness that has her pouting. “I’m so proud of her.”

“That’s great,” Dean says, and he means it. He’s been dating Cas for just under six months, but Alfie has been his friend for ages and these days he thinks of the Edlunds as a second family. He almost feels a sense of pride, knowing Hannah will be out exploring the world and going to the school of her dreams.

“Are you sure you’re settled on Black Hills, honey?” Becky asks, pecking at her food and giving Cas a very motherly look. Cas nods, and Alfie rolls his eyes.

“Did you really think he’d go anywhere else?” Alfie laughs, glancing over at Dean. Cas kicks Alfie under the table and they get tangled up in some kind of shin-hitting war before Becky tells them to stop.

“They’ve always been close for twins, Alfie. You know that. I guess I just pictured them ending up at the same university and sharing a dorm.”

“That’s weird,” Cas says around a mouthful of food, teasing his mother.

Alfie picks at his teeth. “What’s weird is her thinking you’d go anywhere without your loverboy.”

“Boys,” Becky groans, but her smile gives her away. “I’m just worried about my children, is that so hard to believe? She’s going to be somewhere far away and alone, and who knows what kind of person she’ll end up sharing a dorm with.”

“Maybe she’ll end up bunking with a Satanist, or someone who watches all those Alien Discovery shows.”

Becky gasps, feigning shock and smacking the back of Alfie’s hand. He whines and Dean finds himself laughing, unable to stop. Watching them interact is, admittedly, kind of cute.

But then Becky looks over to her eldest son, eyes softening around the edges. One side of her mouth quirks up in a half smile and she takes his hand, her pink nails scratching lightly on his skin. Dean stares at their hands and for a moment, he’s blinded by confusion and unease. He thinks of the way Len does the same thing with him, but it means something entirely different. How can one little action mean so many different things?

“Are you sure Black Hills is your choice, Cas?”

Cas shifts in his seat and tilts his head. He returns the affection by taking his mother’s hand in both of his, and Dean’s heart squirms. “Yes, mom. It’s my choice.”

“You used to talk about Michigan too, you know.”

“Yeah, but Black Hills has the same program, just cheaper.”

Across the table, Alfie starts looking a little uncomfortable, eyes darting between his brother and mom, and sometimes at Dean. He clears his throat and throws in a couple extra noises until his mother gives up. Alfie gets Dean’s attention and then lifts his eyebrows as if to say _mothers, amirite?_ And then Dean finally understands the conversation that wasn’t being spoken aloud.

Becky thinks her son is selling himself short just so he can stay in town and be near Dean.

He shrinks in on himself, glancing toward Cas, wondering if maybe he feels the same way. Wondering if Becky resents him for it. Does she even want him here right now? Does she hate him?

Cas puts his arm over Dean’s shoulders and says, “hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just full,” Dean says with practiced ease. Cas smiles and pecks his temple with a kiss. Becky looks all gooey eyed and happy, a confusing message after what he just deciphered, and Alfie pretends to gag on the sweetness of it.

Becky pays for their food, a generosity that still leaves Dean feeling guilty, and he does his best to return the favor by holding the door open when they leave. Cas gives his mother a hug, and when Dean tries to quietly slip away to get in Cas’ truck, Becky playfully scolds him for avoiding her.

He’s a little red in the cheeks, and it’s still so foreign to him, but Becky pulling him into a hug feels so warm and healing that it’s hard to resist. She doesn’t smell like lavender or cigarettes, no wine on her breath, and her arms are little more muscled than Mary’s, but it’s a nurturing hug all the same.

On impulse, Dean almost starts apologizing to her. He wants to say sorry for dragging her son down with him, for keeping him here instead of letting him go to Michigan State with Hannah. He feels so rotten about it, and he wants to make Becky happy, but then the hug is over and she’s patting Dean on the back.

She looks down at him with tender fondness, says, “So glad you found my boys, Dean,” then pats him on the head and turns to leave with Alfie.

Cas takes his hand and walks him back toward the truck.

He steals a kiss from Dean’s lips when he’s too busy buckling up to notice.

“Hey, Cas?”

The truck starts with a tinny rumble that makes Cas hum in thought, but he turns to Dean and says, “Yeah?”

“Do you want to go to Michigan State?”

The look on Cas’ face is can best be described as annoyance. “No, okay? Man, why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Dean looks out the window and spots Alfie in the driver’s seat of Becky car. Now that he has his license, he’s been allowed to drive his parents everywhere and even bragged that he got to drive by himself to the gas station to grab a candy bar and a soda in the middle of the night. Dean wishes he had that kind of freedom.

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.” Cas insist. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel but holds Dean’s hand with the other, then brings the back of Dean’s hand to his lips. “Why is it so hard to believe I’d want to stay here? Besides, my mom was just giving me a hard time. I was never really sold on Michigan, and I have plenty of reasons to stay.”

Dean can feel tears burning the back of his eyelids, but he takes a deep breath and blinks them away. He hates how easily he starts crying now. “Do you?”

“Don’t start,” Cas says, and it’s the first time Dean can remember him ever sounding truly mad. “I’m not stupid for wanting to stay. I actually like it here, and why would I want to go anywhere I couldn’t see you?” He doesn’t glance at Dean. He keeps his eyes on the road but Dean can tell he’s resisting the urge to glare. “Do you _want_ me to leave?”

He’s never seen Cas mad like this before. He’s always been the cool one, the guy with the level head who only lost himself once when he saw Dean beaten and bruised.

“No,” Dean says honestly. “I want you to stay.”

“Then why…what’s the deal with asking me about Michigan?”

Dean lets go of Cas’ hand, sits higher up in the seat. “I want you to be happy.”

“Okay, well I’m happy with you,” Cas says, voice lowering back to normal. It’s surreal to see him so upset over something as small as this. Dean feels like his heart is being ripped apart but there’s no reason for Cas to feel that way.

“I’m happy with you too.” Dean tries not to sound like a robot when he says it. It’s still hard for him to be this bare, this exposed, but on some level he knows it makes him feel good and whole. “But…does it really matter where you go?”

Cas tilts his head again, trying to figure Dean out. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…it doesn’t matter what school you go to,” he says, which doesn’t help much at all. He knows what he’s trying to say but can’t bring himself to say the words.

Cas doesn’t have to leave the state to leave Dean. He doesn’t have to go far to decide he wants to be with someone else. It doesn’t take a foreign state to show Cas that the world is full of better, beautiful people who can give him things Dean can’t, or never will. Michigan or Black Hills, Cas will see more of the world and realize how much of a drag it is to be tethered to the weird high schooler with mommy issues.

But that’s not how Cas takes the meaning, or at least it doesn’t seem like it. Cas just smiles and says he knows, he can love Dean from anywhere, but he’d rather be as close as possible. He doesn’t think he can give up much time with Dean now that he finally has him.

Whatever that means.

As they turn into Dean’s neighborhood, he starts thinking about what life will be like at high school without Cas there. He’ll still have Alfie, and though he doesn’t have any classes with Bela, they’ll still walk together and watch cars pass under the foot bridge. And maybe he’ll get lucky and Cas won’t meet someone who lights up his world, who makes him forget all about Dean and the darkness he comes from.

“I love you,” Dean says pathetically, unable to look at him.

“I love you too,” Cas replies, but the words are laced with concern. He’s probably staring at Dean right now instead of the road.

“Don’t…uh, just…” Dean starts, but chickens out. He can’t say the words yet. Honestly, he doesn’t even want to think about Cas going to college anymore. He wants to pretend that Cas will be there next year to walk him to class and eat lunch with him and kiss him when the final bell rings. “Don’t forget the little guy when you become a big college man, alright?”

He tries to make it sound like a joke, but he knows he failed.

“Dean,” Cas breathes, shaking his head. He pulls up in front of Dean’s place and tugs him into an awkward hug. “Don’t worry. We’ll see each other every weekend, right? And we still have the summer to get in as much time as we can.”

He hates to admit it, even to himself, but it’s exactly what he needed to hear. The burning behind his eyes starts to fade and he settles, reminding himself not to stress out about it. It’s not like they shared any classes at school already anyway.

There’s a knock on the window, startling Dean more than it should. He almost hits Cas in the face in his bolt upward, his heart racing.

But it’s just Bela, waving and smiling against the glass.

Cas rolls the window down and Bela sings them a greeting in her misplaced accent. She’s wearing the same outfit she’s had on all week, but at least it looks washed this time. Her hair is pulled back in a baseball cap and there’s a fading bruise just above her collar bone. He wonders if Cas notices it.

“Hello,” Cas says, looking a little confused. Dean realizes that while he’s told Bela nearly everything about Cas, he probably hasn’t mentioned much to Cas about Bela.

“This is my friend, Bela,” Dean clarifies, reaching out to poke her cheek. She pokes him right back, and then offers Cas a grand, charming smile.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Castiel. I’ve also read your father’s books. I’d love to pick your brain about it sometime,” She says, leaning her arms in the open space and looking around the inside of Cas’ truck.

“Oh, yeah, I remember now. You’re new at school, right? Dean’s mentioned you.” Cas reaches his hand out to shake hers, unnecessarily formal. Bela puts her hand in Cas’ but doesn’t shake it, instead holding it out like a royal waiting to be kissed. Cas shakes it anyway, but her hand remains limp and strange sticking into his truck.

Dean’s not sure what’s happening here, but it’s making him a little uncomfortable.

He kisses Cas firm on the lips, bizarrely at ease despite the audience. Cas relaxes a little and kisses him back, and Dean says he’ll see him later.

Cas drives off and Dean’s left standing in front of his home, Bela at his side. The driveway is empty and there are no lights on inside, so Dean thinks he has the place to himself for once.

“Have fun?” Bela asks, but there’s something clipped in her voice that tells him something is off.

“Yeah,” he says, but tugs her with him toward the door. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she says, but all the flashy charm and smiles are gone. She stops them when they’re just outside his door, putting a hand on the front of his jacket. “Mind if I join you for a shitty movie or something?”

Dean takes another moment to look her over. There’s still the bruise on her collarbone, a few more old ones in a line down her forearm, but the closer he looks the more he sees it’s less like a bruise and more like a hickey, maybe even a bite mark.

The dark circles under her eyes match the blue and purple accessories coloring her skin, and he doesn’t have to ask to know that she doesn’t want to be home right now.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, but tells her to wait outside for a moment. He has to check to make sure the house is clear, just in case. He runs inside and drops his stuff, calls out to anyone who might be home and is greeted by pleasant silence.

He darts back down the stairs and finds Bela sitting in the grass, picking at her shoes. “Come on in.”

They spend a good twenty minutes bickering about what to watch before finally settling on Scream. Bela insisted on something with death and gore, and though Dean’s not against that sort of thing, it doesn’t exactly lift the mood.

She starts on the opposite end of the couch, legs folded up against her chest. Her body slowly and carefully migrates closer to Dean, inching closer every time she points something out in the movie or makes a joke about one of the characters. Dean doesn’t move from his original spot, just lets her creep closer until her head is resting softly on his shoulder.

“You know the rules in this movie. We’d be the first ones to die.”

Dean looks down at her, but doesn’t know what to say.

“Virgins are supposedly the only ones who survive, you know? Plus, we’d be the only assholes dumb enough to walk directly into a trap.”

Someone dies in the movie and Bela giggles. It would almost be cute if it didn’t sound so forced. He tries not to think about what she said, or painfully true her words are. Of course, life doesn’t follow the rules laid out in movies, but it would make sense that they’d be the first to go. Even if they were somehow virgins or too afraid to investigate the noises in the dark, they are side characters at best. Disposable people.

Dean wonders if he should try to comfort her; she’s obviously hurting, but like Dean, she doesn’t appreciate that kind of attention. He shifts his shoulder so that he can rest his head on hers, and she doesn’t fight it.

“I don’t like being touched, you know.”

“I know,” Dean says.

“This…this is just an exception, okay?”

Dean would laugh if it weren’t so morbidly unfunny. “I get it, Bela.”

Her hair doesn’t smell like shampoo even though she looked washed up, and it takes him a bit but he finally realizes her hair smells like bar soap and lemon zest. He thinks of her missing door, and wonders what else is missing in her life that she doesn’t dare speak about, that Dean doesn’t dare ask.

It’s one thing to see a person stuck in a hole and call for help, to bring them a ladder, and another thing entirely to be stuck in the same bottomless hole with them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. Not proof read or edited. My mother died a few weeks ago and I'm not sure my brain is working right, but here's another chapter. As always, the tags are important and they apply. I will reply to all the comments and messages I've received in the last two months or so very soon.

Dean lies on his bed, fully clothed, heart racing with one leg sagging onto the floor. He feels the swell of adrenaline and terror blooming deep in his chest, a barbed and confusing mess of emotion swallowing him whole. 

He fights against it but fails. He paws at his face, hands too damp to wipe the beads of sweat on his forehead. There’s something screaming inside of him, clawing and frantic, telling him to _go, go, go_. The moon is high and Dean wouldn’t make it far even if he left, aimless and guided by flickering street lamps, because there’s no destination waiting for him. Nowhere to go. 

There’s solitude here, something rare and blissful he normally craves, but now the absence leaves only the loud panting of his own breath to accompany him through the night. He keeps sucking in air but it doesn’t make it to his lungs, keeps watching the door to see if the doorknob turns though he knows it won’t. 

When he shivers, the cold air hitting his sweat and sticking to him, sinking in, Dean thinks of Bela. 

She’s probably shivering right now, too. No real door, no curtains, and he doubts either of their parents paid the bills on time, their breaths a foggy contrast to the darkness of their bedrooms. Cas is likely sound asleep and warm, tucked into his bedding with the heater on, or perhaps kept snug by the family fireplace and a cup of hot chocolate. The image of his boyfriend being lovingly warmed from the inside out calms Dean briefly, then alights his jealousy and anger anew. 

It’s not Cas he’s mad at, but sometimes it sure feels like it. 

Dean thinks if he stays on his bed any longer, he might die. He can’t shake the awful feelings weighing him down, knows he can’t outrun them, but it’s the thought that Bela might be suffering too that has him pushing himself up and ambling toward his closet, searching for a second warm sweater that doesn’t completely stink of smoke. 

He knows the type of life Bela lives, because he’s living it too. He might not be able to run, but maybe he can help himself by helping her, as illogical and it sounds in his head. Her secrets are unguarded – most of them anyway – hanging out to dry on her sleeve. But there are some secrets still buried in the cavity where her heart used to be, he’s sure of it. Maybe if he can keep her from freezing tonight, he can muffle the relentless screaming in his head. 

Outside, it’s even colder than Dean expected. This is stupid, he knows, foolish and probably reckless, but the consequences seem null and void in comparison to the potential for good. He creeps through the darkness, avoiding the crisp leaves and twigs on the ground, but still manages to make noise on the grass and sidewalk. His footsteps sound powerfully loud against the dead silence surrounding him, his jeans shuffling and dragging where they’re baggy and tattered around his heels. It’s cold enough that he nearly convinces himself to wear both sweaters, but he manages to resist. Won’t be much of a hero if he steals the help for himself. 

She lives close enough that only his fingertips feel numb when he finally arrives. Without fences, her backyard is easily breached and he finds the window that belongs to her room. It’s broken, the jagged edges of the pane lined with several layers of duct tape, and her curtain is a stained pillowcase drawn tight over the opening. He wonders if it’s taped down, too. 

He waits there a moment, suddenly painfully aware of his actions and how unwelcome he is, how unwanted. Bela wouldn’t normally turn him away, but he’s never snuck over in the middle of the night and lurked outside her window. He dragged himself out of a panic by likening himself to a savior, bringing his friend something warm to wear, but he hadn’t considered what his presence might mean at a time like this, what Bela might think of him.

Dean loves Cas, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t fantasized about Cas rescuing him from his home, taking him somewhere happy and safe, somewhere he’d never have to look back. Lord knows Cas has saved him in smaller ways, time and time again, but when it comes down to it, Dean can’t think of anything more humbling or humiliating than Cas walking in to save him at the wrong moment, when Dean is most vulnerable. 

He’d be mortified if Cas jumped in to save the day, seeing Dean at his worst, witnessing first hand all the disgusting schemas of Dean’s identity that define who he is. He’d never be able to look at Cas again. 

As he stands there, lips going numb to join his fingers, he wonders if Bela is asleep. He wonders if her father is in there with her, if Dean’s presence would only make her feel worse. 

He knows, without a doubt, that even if he pushed aside the pillowcase and saw her father in bed with her, or saw her recovering from the aftermath, there’s nothing he can do to stop it or make it better. He only wanted to keep her from shivering, but even that might be overstepping the invisible, unspoken boundaries set in place. 

There’s no backup plan here, and now all Dean can think about is Bela feeling exposed and hating him for it. 

But then he hears the subtle sound of something being plucked from the wall, and Bela lifts away the pillowcase and lifts an eyebrow at Dean. “You’re thinking awfully loud out there.”

Dean is frozen is place, almost literally. The chill sank deeper into his bones than he realized. “I brought you a sweater,” he says, gruff and slow, his jaw unwilling to work properly. 

Bela’s in an old wife beater, something that looks like it used to belong to her father, arms prickled with goosebumps and pale, with fresh bruises on her collarbone and wrist. 

They stare at each other in silence, and for several endless minutes Dean thinks he’s ruined their friendship, lost the only person in the world he can relate to. Her eyes well with tears that spill down her cheeks, but she doesn’t wipe them away. She’s stronger than Dean in that regard, unashamed of her willingness to cry. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, but her slender arm reaches through window, carefully avoiding the taped serrated frame, and takes the sweater offered to her. 

He can barely make out her shape once she’s back in her room, but he can see her tug the sweater on and pull the hoodie up over her head. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step back. Accepting a gift does not a truce make. 

“Stop being sorry all the time,” Bela snaps, not bothering to be quiet. Her father must not be home either. “It’s one of the most frustrating things in the world, I swear.”

“What is?”

“You being sorry. Is there anything you’re not sorry for?” She’s back at the window, eyes narrowed and teeth chattering. She hugs the sweater tighter around her chest. 

Dean pauses, afraid he’s messed everything up. He hasn’t seen Bela angry like this before, and he knows it’s his fault. “I don’t know,” he admits, shifting his weight in discomfort. “Should I not be sorry?”

Bela sighs, leaning her elbows on the sill. “For some things, sure. Like, do you even own a sweater that doesn’t have an awful ancient band logo? But you probably just saved me from hypothermia, so no, you shouldn’t be sorry for that. Unusually cold night for spring, don’t you think?”

Dean licks his lips in an attempt to warm them, but the moisture only seems to chill them further. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, I guess.”

“You’re a ridiculously silly creature, Dean. You could singlehandedly save the entire world and still be apologizing for it.”

Well, he certainly feels ridiculous now, bringing Bela a sweater and getting nagged about his apparently misguided attempts at being forgiven. He knows he’s drawn to her in ways he’s still trying to understand, and yet he still occasionally wants to punch her. It only makes him feel worse, acknowledging that inherently violent side of him, but he never would. He doesn’t want to hurt people. 

“Fine,” Dean says, giving up at conversation. He didn’t come here to hang out, anyway. “No fucks given. Take the damn sweater and enjoy it.”

“There you go,” she smiles, giving him an approving nod. “And thank you, I will.”

With that, she carefully pulls the makeshift curtain back into place, pinning it to the wall with Dean guesses are thumbtacks, and he hears her shuffle back into bed. 

“Bela,” Dean starts, but realizes he doesn’t know what else to say. He stands there awkwardly, lingering by her window and cussing at himself. The panic that drove him out of his bed is still there, barely muted by his act of generosity, and there are still words left unsaid that feel heavy on his tongue. 

“I’m throwing a party soon. You should come,” Bela chirps, light and inviting as if she wasn’t just pissed at him a moment ago. 

Dean shakes his head, even though she can’t see him. “I don’t go to parties,” he says, but then corrects himself. “I don’t like to drink.”

There’s more light shifting from her bed, the sound of blankets being moved around, and after waiting for a response for longer than he should have, Bela finally replies. “You should go home, Dean.”

He takes another step back, then another, but jolts when his back hits a willowy tree.

Bella giggles, of course she does. 

“Shut it,” Dean mumbles, certain she won’t hear him, then breaks into a light jog toward his home. His muscles and joints feel stiff and difficult to move, but then he’s inside and locking the door behind him, rushed by slightly warmer air that feels infinitely better than being outside. 

If possible, the place is quieter than when he left, darker, far more ominous and threatening. He kicks off his shoes and hurries back into his bedroom, pretending like he’s shivering only because of the cold, but doesn’t bother curling up under the blankets. For a moment, he feels grateful that his windows aren’t broken, that despite the unpaid bills his bedroom is still warmer than a house with no door and that no one is here to tell him what to do. 

But that moment passes, and all he’s left with is the guilt that he couldn’t do more, the pain of abandonment, and the lingering jealousy from the knowledge that right now, Cas and Alfie both have the comfort of their heated homes and the presence of their parents and each other. 

҉ 

It takes a few weeks, but eventually Dean understands that Bela is right; he needs to stop being so sorry all the time. 

He can’t shake the guilty feeling that follows him, rattles behind him like tin cans on a string, but he can take the first step towards happiness and take control of what little he has. Like Cas, for instance. He has Cas and for the first time since meeting him, Dean’s not sorry they’re together. 

It wasn’t a gradual realization. It hit him suddenly while kissing him desperately in the back of Cas’ truck, that maybe his kisses shouldn’t be so urgent, shouldn’t feel like stolen moments he’s not allowed to have. Cas is his, and he belongs to Cas. They have each other, and though Dean can’t predict the future, he can savor this time with him and enjoy it instead of being so goddamn afraid of every second they share. 

“What?” Cas whispers, lips searching again for Dean’s after he’d pulled away. 

Dean adds a little more distance between them, pushing against Cas’ chest and taking a deep breath. Cas’ brow furrows in confusion, then worry, thinking he had forced Dean too far or asked for too much. Dean drops a quick kiss to his forehead, silently reassuring him. 

“I was thinking…” Dean mumbles, trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. The campfire crackles but slowly dims nearby. They’ve been kissing for so long that they forgot to feed the flames. “Anything could happen, you know?”

Cas tilts his head. “I suppose. Vague question, though.”

Dean tries to muffle his laugh, but can’t. “I mean, we could die on the way home if someone runs a red light. Some cosmic force could rip through the Earth, the Sun could explode, I could choke on dinner tomorrow and never see another day.”

“Okay,” Cas says, wary. He adjusts himself until he’s sitting up higher, eye level with Dean. “That’s a pretty pessimistic way of viewing life.”

“Is it?” Dean challenges. His heart is thudding dangerously fast in his chest, excited. “It might be the only way to live, if you think about it. We could die at any moment, so every moment has to be important.”

Cas, still nervous, cups Dean’s face as if he’s expecting to hear something he doesn’t like. It only makes Dean laugh more, making him feel crazy and unsteady, almost drunk on it. Nothing has happened yet, but he feels so blissfully happy and at peace, liberated from his own self-imposed cage. “Am I scaring you?”

Cas nods. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” he admits, almost making it a question. Dean can feel his hand trembling against his cheek. 

He covers Cas’ hand with his own, leaning forward to kiss him again with renewed energy and purpose. Cas is tentative, overthinking, so Dean slows it down and tries to comfort him rather than consume him. Cas shudders at the feel of it, opens his mouth wider and uses his other hand to grip Dean’s bicep. It’s not hard enough to leave a bruise, but the needy part of Dean’s brain almost wishes it was. 

Dean moves his mouth just enough to nip at Cas’ lower lip, to tease him tenderly with his teeth, and Cas holds still long enough to let him. His grip on Dean’s arm tightens, and he feels powerful and triumphant all at once. There’s barely any space between them now, not with Dean in Cas’ lap and their shirts dragging against each other as they push and pull at each other with their mouths. 

“Dean,” Cas tries, but it’s muffled and cut short by the way they’re still fervently kissing. 

By way of apology, Dean gives Cas just enough room to breathe, but finds himself perilously begging Cas for something he can’t put into words. “Tell me you want this.”

Cas stops short, closing his mouth and leaning back again. He assesses Dean with careful eyes, searching for the right answer to a question he doesn’t understand. “You know I want you, Dean.”

But it’s not enough, not what Dean needs to hear. He can feel the power slipping from his fingers, the hard-won bravery, and he needs Cas to want this more than he does to maintain any semblance of control. His stomach plummets, but he manages to salvage just enough courage to get his point across. 

He grinds his hips down, smiling when Cas suppresses a moan and tilts his head back, lifting his own hips in search of more friction. Dean carefully slips a hand between them, deftly unbuttons Cas’ jeans and squeezes his hand into the tantalizing opening of his pants. Cas gasps, the firm hold he had on Dean’s arm goes slack and rises higher, settling on the back of Dean’s neck. 

For a moment, the world goes black and all Dean can see is Len; biting him there, claiming him, sucking bruises into his flesh, and Dean has to force the images away. He twists and shakes Cas’ hand off, panting, heart changing rhythm into something old and cold and familiar. 

“Don’t touch me there,” Dean says, but the words come out harsher than he meant them to. Cas frowns, opens his mouth to apologize, but Dean doesn’t want to hear it. “You can touch me, anywhere, just not…there. Not my neck.”

Cas nods, and Dean doesn’t feel weaker for it. He told someone not to touch his neck, something he wasn’t sure was possible, and the response was simply more excellent kissing and now shredding extra layers of clothing. 

He tucks that information away for later, unwilling to think about it any longer. Cas is beautifully beneath him, shirtless now and jittery, unsure of what to expect. Dean tugs at his jeans and boxers, freeing his swollen, leaking cock. 

“You want this, right?”

Despite his lingering confusion, Cas nods. “I want you, Dean. I want whatever you’ll give me.”

“Even sex?”

Cas’ lips fall open, his lovely eyes widen dolefully and heartsick. Dean doesn’t think he could handle rejection at this point, can’t stomach the idea that the one person he wants in this way wouldn’t feel the same. He’s Catholic, Dean knows, and maybe despite their lenient and forward views on sexuality, they might not appreciate pre-marital sex. 

“You mean…”

“I want you inside me, Cas.” He fears the surge of freedom lacing his motives might fade, might wither more and more every moment it takes his boyfriend to get the point, but mostly Dean’s just trying to be merciful. He doesn’t want there to be any misunderstanding when it comes to this, to something so permanent and binding. 

It’s Cas’ first time, after all. And though he doesn’t want to think about Alfie at this particular moment, he remembers the gentle yet threat-laced warning about Cas’ vulnerability, as if Dean could be a liability, a bad influence. 

Right now, he kind of feels like it. 

But then Cas is nodding, eager, guiding Dean’s hand to his exposed dick and pulling him close, warning him not to get him too close to the edge. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be any good,” Cas admits, muscles tensing with every upward stroke of Dean’s fist. “I’m not exactly sure what to do.”

“You’ll be great,” Dean promises, then shuts himself up by kissing Cas again. He can’t teach the man beneath him with tales of his own experience, can’t appear too knowledgeable on the subject, but he can sooth Cas with affection and genuine vows of their love. Dean has been fucked before, regardless of his consent, but he knows without a doubt that this will be the best sex of his life. 

And really, in many ways, this will be a first for Dean too. 

But as he works Cas into full, ready erection, he remembers there are still things they need to do this right. “Cas,” he says, praying his boyfriend is somehow miraculously prepared, “do you have protection? Or…lube?”

To his surprise, Cas blushes and ducks his head, gesturing toward his discarded wallet a few feet away. “It’s a lubed condom, does that count?”

Dean wants to laugh again, mostly at Cas’ embarrassed reaction, but he leans over to fetch the wallet. Cas hisses at the cooling hair hitting his now neglected dick, but takes the wallet from Dean’s hands and pulls out a single packet. 

“My dad gave it to me a little while back. I was too nervous to accept it directly, so he ended up putting it on my dresser later. I didn’t think it would ever come in handy.”

Something slimy and annoying squirms in Dean’s chest. He doesn’t know what Cas means by that, if he thought he and Dean would never reach this point, or if he simply thought he’d never sex with someone at all, but it’s another mental obstacle Dean hurdles through by ignoring it. 

“Here,” Dean says, taking the condom and ripping the foil. He drops the trash to the side, but then Cas takes the condom back and slowly rolls it onto himself. It’s almost obscenely wet, how well coated the latex is with pre-packaged lube, and Dean relaxes a little. He’s taken it dry before and it’s not something he cares to relive. 

Cas is looking at Dean expectantly, and he realizes he’s still mostly dressed. 

Scooting away, Dean lies down on his back and kicks off his jeans, then debates about whether or not to remove his sweater. Before he can decide, Cas is blanketing him, resting his weight over Dean’s body and lightly combing his fingers through Dean’s hair. His other hand is pushing up the sweater and shirt underneath, but Dean catches the hem of his tee and keeps it in place. Cas sees the movement, offers an allaying smile, and only helps him remove the oversized, slightly obnoxious sweater. 

He doesn’t ask Dean to remove his shirt, even though he himself is topless save the Saint George pendant dangling from his neck. Distracted, the pinned dragon shrieks at him with bared fangs, the medal hovering just above Dean’s chest. 

“What do I do?” Cas asks, quiet and restless. Dean can feel the slippery latex smear a trail across his thigh, and though he knows he could endure it without proper preparation, that’s now how he wants this to go. 

Dean shifts a bit, getting comfortable and spreading his legs a little wider. Cas glances down and bites his lip, but Dean tells him not to worry. “Start with your fingers,” he suggests, then tells him to get them wet first from the excess on his condom. Cas follows his orders gorgeously, reminding Dean that he’s the one in control here. 

He can’t stop the moan that escapes him when Cas first touches him. There’s just a gentle, slightly hesitant rubbing at first, but then one finger pushes in and the look on Cas’ face nearly does Dean in. Cas is so excited by it, so lost in it, and Dean finds himself watching every expression as they change on his boyfriend’s face. 

It doesn’t take long for Cas to add a second finger, less hesitant than with the first one, working up a slow pace that leaves Dean only with a mild, bearable burn. It’s not unpleasant; if anything, the slight hint of pain astounds him. He may get to experience this in a real way, how a first time should be. 

Cas keeps asking Dean how he’s doing, if he’s doing it right, if the speed is too fast or too slow. Dean doesn’t know what to say, so instead he assures Cas that it feels perfect, feels right. Dean lets his eyes close so he can focus on the sensation, and how purely wonderful it is. 

There’s no rush, so Cas takes his time. Dean’s impressed to be honest, both by Cas’ willpower and his persistence on making sure Dean is stretched adequately before taking it any further. When Dean is certain he’s about to explode from the fingers alone, he tells Cas he’s okay, he’s ready, and he wants him. 

Cas pulls his fingers out a little too quickly, but he makes up for it by kissing Dean senseless with soft, adoring pressure. Cas takes himself in his hand, inches closer, and Dean can feel the blunt head pressing against him, searching for give. 

Unexpectedly, Cas pauses. “Um…should I put on some music? In the truck?”

It takes Dean a minute to process the question, and a few seconds more to answer it. “Music? Why?”

Cas tries to hide his face, as if the answer to the question would cost him more than he can afford to give. “In the movies, there’s always music. I just want this to be…I don’t know. I want it to be perfect for you. You still have one of your CD’s in the car, I could put on your favorite song or something.”

Dean swallows back the awful feeling stuck in his throat, the lump threatening to make him cry. He refuses to cry tonight, no matter how sweet or stupidly perfect Cas always is, even now.

“We don’t need music. That’s not – there’s no script for this, Cas,” he says, but still doesn’t think Cas gets it. Dean’s not entirely sure he knows what he means, either. “Honestly, I won’t remember the music if you play it, it’s not what I’ll be paying attention to.”

Cas lingers, unconvinced. Dean can’t help but wonder if he’s stalling. 

“None of this other stuff matters,” Dean adds, gesturing at the truck and the dwindling campfire, even at the trees and bright stars above them. “You’re what’s making this perfect. Just you.”

“Okay,” Cas grins, biting his lip again. “Okay, yeah. It…uh, this just seems like a dream, I think. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” Dean insists. “You can’t.”

Cas leans down and captures Dean’s mouth a final time, his tongue breaching Dean’s lips at the same time he pushes in, torturously slow. Without his permission, Dean’s hips move in tight circles in an attempt to help ease the way, to bring Cas closer. His legs lift automatically and settle around Cas’ waist, making the angle easier for both of them as Cas slides in the last, nerve-wracking inch. 

His periphery flickers in an out as Cas starts moving in short, awkward movements, trying to balance himself with one arm so the other is free to touch and explore. He cradles Dean’s face, thumb smoothing across his chin and teasing his lower lip. 

“Does it hurt?” Cas whispers, maintaining his leisurely rhythm. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” comes Dean’s instant reply, though it does sting more than he expected. It’s not the stretch that hurts him, doesn’t feel like he’s being split open, but he suspects the latex is dragging over old wounds not fully healed. It’s a deep, sharp pinch, but nothing more. Nothing he can’t handle. 

They don’t talk again for a while after that. Dean closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Cas’ breathing, of their nervously sweat-slick bodies clinging to each other. The pendant undulates between them, resting on Dean’s heart when Cas bows his head to kiss him. When Cas rests his forehead on Dean’s, he can see how strangely devastated Cas looks, how completely caught up and enraptured he is.

Dean laces his fingers behind Cas’ neck, ignores the briery edge of remorse that he’s touching Cas somewhere he won’t be touched himself, and urges Cas with small, pitiful pleas to move faster.

Cas complies, shaking with how close he is coming, staving off his orgasm with sheer willpower. Dean feels amazing but he’s not quite there yet, dick hot and twitching on his belly. He debates on whether or not to touch himself, but decides against it. He’d rather be touching Cas, keeping their faces close, savoring the warm breath mixing with his own. 

He didn’t notice it at first, but Dean realizes that Cas isn’t much of a moaner. He’s not quiet, but neither of them are making much noise and for some incomprehensible reason, it makes everything so much sincerer, more honest, less about turning it into some porno or impressing each other. They’re both in the moment, staring into each other’s eyes whenever they’re far enough apart, sighing words of faith and satisfaction when they get the chance. 

Cas can’t hold it in any longer. His weight drops over Dean as he thrusts harder and deeper until he gasps, a shocked noise forced out of him, eyes hazy with contentment. He rests his body on Dean’s, catching his breath, kissing along Dean’s clothed shoulder. 

There are muscles in Dean’s legs that he didn’t know existed until he unfolded them and let his knees splay out, relief flooding him despite the ache, and allows his legs to rest. He doesn’t want to let go of Cas, though, so he keeps his hands where they are, only letting them wander far enough to play with the soft hair on his nape. 

Eventually, once Cas’ breathing has evened out and he’s come down from his high, Cas rolls off Dean and lies beside him, smiling. Dean can’t help himself – he grins back. He has no idea how many minutes or hours have passed, only that it was time well spent, his heart wild and free in his chest. 

“Oh,” Cas says, looking down at where they’d been joined, shame replacing the euphoric joy of his features. “I didn’t get you off.”

Dean glances down, sees his aching and forgotten dick, but tells Cas it’s okay. “You were awesome,” he says, frightened that he’d hurt Cas’ feelings. “Seriously, that was…unbelievable.”

No one has accused Dean of being a poet, but he hopes Cas believes him anyway. 

Cas looks only mildly embarrassed now, so Dean takes his hand and guides it, wraps it around himself and tells him he’s close – teetering on the line, really – and just a few strokes should do it. 

Sure enough, Dean fucks into Cas’ fist for less than a minute and then he’s coming, lewd and sticky all over Cas’ fingers. 

“I’ll do better next time,” Cas swears, cleaning his hand by wiping it off on Dean’s shirt. He’d mind, but the shirt is already messy and ruined, and it’s not like they thought to bring something to wash off with. 

Dean pulls off his last article of clothing, avoiding getting any spunk on his face, and bunches it up to use as a rag. He mops himself up first, then hands it to Cas so he can clean up what’s left after slipping the condom off and knotting it. All too aware that he’s completely naked, Dean reaches for his sweater first, wanting to hide anything on his torso that might give him away, forgetting if Len had left any marks on him the last time or not. His underwear is second, and by the time he’s tugging on his jeans, Cas follows suit. 

“It was your first time,” Dean says thoughtlessly, unaware of his slip. “And…aw, don’t make me get all sentimental, okay?” He laughs, curling up against Cas’ side once they’re both dressed. He presses his face into Cas’ chest and takes a deep breath, wondering if this is how post-coital cuddling is supposed to feel; sweet and happy and innocent, 

Cas huffs, intertwining their legs and tucking his arm under Dean’s head as a pillow. “It was your first time too, Dean.”

Dean blanches, but his face is hidden and knows Cas can’t see it. “You know what I mean,” he says, brushing it off and hoping the conversation ends there. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Nausea creeps in slowly and Dean tries to ignore that, too, but he’s struck hard by the feeling that he’s played some awful trick – that while Cas shouldn’t be sorry, _Dean_ should be. He’s angry now, almost embarrassed, the lack of shame and ready apologies rushing back to him too quickly. 

Cas tenderly kisses the top of his head, not pulling away. Instead, he wriggles until he’s fully comfortable, eyelids fluttering from exhaustion. Dean feels the same; not physically, but his mind has run a marathon tonight and he’s too tired to think anymore. 

“You don’t regret it, do you?” Cas asks, taking Dean by surprise. He blinks, looking up at Cas in search of something readable on his face, afraid of what he might find. Either Cas has turned into a closed book or still has enough control of himself to hide his thoughts, because Dean can’t tell what’s on his mind. 

“No,” Dean says, still searching for some clue. “Do you?”

The corner of Cas’ lip quirks up in a half smile, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Okay,” Dean hedges, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t usually have this much conversation after an orgasm, and he’s terrified by it. 

“Maybe next time, we can switch places?” 

For a moment, Dean assures himself that he didn’t hear Cas correctly, or that he must have misunderstood the meaning. Surely his boyfriend isn’t suggesting that Dean do the fucking next time, right?

“Um,” Dean starts, but can’t finish the sentence. The nausea he’d been ignoring resurfaces with full force, and he’s scrambling toward the edge of the truck bed so he can vomit over the side without getting anything on Cas’ blankets. He pukes for what feels like ages, barely registering Cas’ hand on his back, the sight of his bile and partially digested theater popcorn in the grass below only making it worse. 

Why is he puking? No matter how many times he asks himself, Dean doesn’t know the answer. He doesn’t understand why his anxiety has him such a mess, why his heart feels like it’s going to explode or why there’s a constant litany of _run, hide, run_ , back in his brain. Fear quickly turns to humiliation, leaving him nothing more than a bundle of raw, overexposed nerves. 

“You okay?” Cas asks pointlessly. Of course Dean isn’t okay. 

When he’s able to determine there is, in fact, nothing else in his system left to puke, Dean wipes his face with his sleeve and slumps back into the truck bed, letting Cas hold him and rub his arms to warm him back up. Dean feels pale and bloodless, hyperaware of how pitiful and pathetic he looks. He wants to crawl away but doesn’t. 

“I’m fine,” Dean lies, and he hates how easily he can lie to Cas. Hates it more than he hates himself, though it definitely adds to the reasons for why Dean is a piece of shit. 

“Do you…not want to do this again? I’m…I won’t force you to have sex with me, you know that right?”

Cas’ words, coupled with Dean’s insurmountable self-hatred, makes him feel like the worst person on Earth. Shame redoubles inside him and he thinks Cas knows. Cas must know, must suspect something at least, if he’s likening their potential future attempts at sex as something closer to…rape. 

“It’s not that,” Dean says, failing to redirect the conversation as much as he wants to. Even if Cas knows, it’s not like either of them can do anything about it. Just like Bela, Dean might never be free of the Len-shaped shadow that lurks behind him everywhere he goes. “I just, I don’t think I can do that.”

“What? You mean top?”

Damn Cas and his forward, conversant lingo. 

“Yeah,” Dean relents, allowing Cas to hold him as long as he wants. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

But when Cas almost starts giggling, Dean wants to push away and curl up into the corner. It’s not very funny, not from Dean’s perspective. He can’t imagine what Cas finds so humorous about the situation. 

“That’s what practice is for,” Cas insists, speaking gently against Dean’s ear. “I didn’t hurt you, right? I trust you. You won’t hurt me.”

_I already have_ , Dean thinks, biting his tongue to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth. He can’t even put into words how much he’s afraid of it, how it haunts him, the image of himself growing into a man like Len and taking whatever people have to give as if they owe him something, like he deserves it. The reckless way he steals what he wants, damning the consequences, leaving those around him to nurse their wounds in silence. 

It’s an experience he’s never had, being the one on top. Sure, he’s had years of practice taking it up the ass with and without preparation, but he’s always equated fucking someone else with dominance and control, with cruel, reckless disregard. It was such a huge factor in his life, that idea, that he knew he could never impose himself on someone else like that, would never force his affections on someone and make them endure a sick, evil person like Dean. 

It's why he had given up on finding love in the first place. Why he thought himself broken.

And yet Cas hadn’t been cruel. He wanted Cas, wanted to know what it would feel like with his boyfriend inside him. Consent and desire were such lovely counterpoints to everything he’d been known before, and it was almost too much to bear. 

Baby steps, he tells himself. He doesn’t want to backtrack anymore. 

“I’ll think about it.” Dean feels stupid for saying such a non-committal phrase, but it’s the best he can do. 

Cas lies them back down, keeps Dean close to his chest and rubs circles over Dean’s back. “No pressure,” he says, still smiling, and naturally it only makes Dean feel worse. 

҉ 

The day of Cas’ graduation goes by too quickly. 

He’s seated between Alfie and his little brother Sam, who insisted on coming simply because he was excited about seeing what a high school graduation looked like. Dean tried to talk him out of it, reminding him that it’s the same as any other boring, officiated procession, but Sam’s puppy eyes are one of Dean’s many weaknesses. Plus, he’s not going to fight off spending time with his only sibling, the kid he rarely gets to see these days as it is. 

Cas is situated closer to the front of the group of students than the back, but he’s easy to spot with his gold honor tassels and the yellow puff paint Hannah used to write their intended universities on the top of their square caps. Dean watches as Hannah periodically whispers something in Cas’ ear, both of them smiling and impatient, surprisingly not bored by the long speeches and the school quartets playing traditional, inspiring music. 

Becky is in tears, her first born twins celebrating an incredible milestone, hugging Alfie or Carver when the emotion becomes too much. Dean kind of wants to hug her, too, but he’s not sure why. Sam is leaned so far forward in his seat that Dean is prepared to make fun of him if he falls off. 

When they start calling names in alphabetical order, listing each student’s accomplishments as they hand over the diploma, posing for a picture, Sam taps on Dean’s knee, eyes wide. “That’s going to be us one day.”

Dean looks down at Sam, not sure what to say. 

His little brother is far too excited for Dean to ruin his mood. Yeah, Sam will no doubt be here in the future, sitting with his class, wearing every honor cord and medallion the school has to offer. There wouldn’t be enough space on his cap to list every college he’d been accepted to, or all the scholarships he’ll surely win. 

But Dean…he’s not sure he’s going to make it. 

He might be good at math, but he’s put zero effort into thinking about college or what he’s even going to do with the rest of his life. He’s been taking life day by day, not knowing how far he’ll make it before some cataclysmic event happens and he’s dead or gone or…somewhere. Anywhere but here. 

Hell, even Alfie already knows what he wants to do and they’ll only be Juniors next year. Quite frankly, even if Dean somehow managed to come up with a cohesive plan for his adult life, there’s no way Mary could afford to send them anywhere other than a nearby community college. She might not be alive long enough to see it. 

Castiel James Edlund is called first, and the moment he accepts his diploma, Dean is cheering louder than he thought himself capable of. The whole Edlund clan is screaming and shouting Cas’ name, snapping pictures with their camera, and they keep the noise going when Hannah is called next. Dean claps for her too, even though his time with her has been limited. She’s a warm soul like Cas, and this moment will only happen for them once. 

“I can’t wait,” Sam says, so Dean just offers him a nod. “Not just graduating, but _freedom_. We can go wherever we want and not have to deal with them anymore.”

It’s kind of Sam not to lump Dean in with the tethers holding him back, but again, Dean doesn’t know what to say.

When Cas returns to his seat, he turns and glances up at his family in the stadium seats, waving his diploma and flashing his teeth with an enormous grin. Becky takes more pictures, and Carver is starting to look a little teary eyed himself. 

As the principal drones on through the rest of the names, Becky turns to Alfie and Dean, giving them each a wink. “You boys are next!” She says, all jittery with pride. “It all goes by so fast, kids. Enjoy these next two years as upperclassmen. Oh! And you can’t forget to speak with your guidance counselors when school starts. You better make sure you’re getting college credit for the math classes you’ll be taking next year, and the sooner you start your community service requirements, the better.”

Dean feels a little irked that Becky is telling him what to do, treating him like one of her sons, but he does the same thing he does with Sam. He nods and smiles for lack of anything better to respond with, and thanks her for her concern. 

It’s not like he grew up learning how to reply to that kind of sentiment. 

Alfie bumps Dean’s shoulder, his mood too bright for Dean to match it. “We should do our community service hours together, make it less of chore,” he says, almost like it’s a joke. “Mom said we’ll be in a very small math class since we took senior-level math already, so we can probably go at our own pace. No waiting on the slowest kid in class anymore.”

Dean agrees. One small mercy of his Junior year will be less core curriculum classes and more learning about the stuff he likes. 

Beside him, Sam is beaming up at him like Dean just broke a world record. “What?”

“You’re lucky. You get to graduate first. Besides, they don’t really offer advanced classes in middle school, so you get to have that too. I have to wait two more stupid years.”

Dean frowns, considering his brother’s words. “If school is that easy for you, why not test out and skip a grade?”

“Mom won’t let me,” Sam says, like it’s old news. “Technically it’s Len that said no. You’d think he’d want me out of the house sooner though, right? But he says if I skip a grade then I’ll be less mature compared to my peers, as if my peers aren’t a bunch of hormone driven pre-teens.”

“Fuck what Len thinks,” Dean blurts, then covers his mouth in shock. Becky side-eyes him but doesn’t call him out on it, and Alfie just smirks. Sam bursts into laughter. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before,” Sam says, still laughing. “But you’re right. You’re totally right.”

“And you’re still a little shrimp.”

“Jerk.”

Dean almost replies with _Bitch_ , but he’s cussed in front of Becky enough for one lifetime. Instead, he ruffles Sammy’s hair and makes it stick out in silly angles, finally joining in on the laughter when Sam pouts and tries to smooth his hair back into place. 

When all the pomp and pageantry is over, they filter outside to meet the graduates and celebrate with even more posing and photos. Dean and Sam hang back while Becky goes overboard with the trigger, capturing every single moment she can of her twins in shiny gowns and caps. She takes individual shots, then some of the twins together, then pushes Alfie into the line of fire to get some of him too. 

Dean can’t help but feel a little nostalgic, or maybe it’s closer to melancholy. There aren’t enough words in the dictionary to describe what he’s feeling, both proud and pleased yet aching for something he’ll never have. Not just his own graduation, which is still a couple years off and undetermined, but watching Becky play mother hen to her brood fills him with a longing he doesn’t want to acknowledge. 

The last time Mary attended one of Dean’s functions, she was drunk and had to be escorted out. It was years ago, and he doubts she’ll ever have the presence of mind to do what Becky can. 

Dean’s shaken from his reverie when Becky calls his name, telling him to join in the family photo. She hands the camera to Sam, begging for a group photo with all of her family before her little chicks flee the nest. She puts Dean right next to Cas, tells him to smile, and gets in place. 

Sam raises the camera and starts snapping, but Dean is too stunned to smile. He tries, but it feels strange and robotic. He…he didn’t know Becky considered him part of the family, nor can he figure out why, even though she doles out her advice to him as often as she does to Alfie. 

The group splits up then, Becky takes back the camera, but tells Dean to stay put. “I want pictures of you two together,” she says, not taking no for an answer. Cas drapes an arm over Dean’s shoulder and smiles, but Dean is a rigid board being bent out of shape. His insides twist uncomfortably but he does his best, afraid to disappoint Becky, unwilling to refuse someone who just gave him a compliment he never knew he wanted. 

“Celebrate with me?” Cas whispers in his ear when the photographs are over and everyone has dispersed. Sam took off with Alfie and they’re throwing a Frisbee like old friends. Carver and Becky are leaning against each other and scanning through the digital files on her camera, and Hannah took off already with a group of her friends to crash the senior party being held at the school. 

“Sure,” Dean says, though he doesn’t feel like it. He feels like his body has been twisted around so much lately that he doesn’t recognize himself anymore. “Where do you want to go?” Cas blushes, and Dean understands what he’s asking for. “So, not the arcade then?”

“No, not the arcade,” Cas says, blaming the redness of his cheeks on the sun. “But as much as I love not going to the arcade with you, I was thinking we could do dinner first?”

Dean almost starts to laugh, but he remembers the hourglass looming over their heads, grains of sand slipping to the bottom at an alarming pace; all they have left is the summer before Cas starts college in the fall, and who knows how much time they’ll have together then? 

Len’s prophecy sticks in his ears and his heart, a mold decaying him from the inside out, but he wants every moment Cas is willing to spend with him, wants every second of it for himself. 

But as they’re walking toward Cas’ truck, waving goodbye to the Edlunds as Becky promises to get Sam home safe, the sun begins to set and casts shows in front of them. Dean catches sight of his own, sick with the feeling that it looks more like Len is branching from his feet than himself.


	12. Chapter 12

Hey guys. 

I am not sure how else to reach everyone who reads this fic, but I just wanted to say a few things. I'm sorry I haven't been updating. My mother died, and then I've had four surgeries since November. But more than that, I've been extremely discouraged by how much hate mail I've received. Some of the things people are writing to me...I almost can't even believe how cruel someone can be over free fanfiction. I've been "yelled at" so many times in the last six months over this fic, either in anonymous messages, regular/private messages, or in comments that I've had to delete. I have no idea if it's just one person or several, but it's reached the point where I am actually in tears over it. 

Writing is hard. Everyone has their own preferences, styles, characterizations, abilities, and whatever else. When I decided to start writing, it was never about wanting praise. It was just something I've always wanted to try, and it took an enormous amount of courage for me to give it a shot. I still have a mild panic attack every time I post a new chapter. 

I want to finish this story for the people who enjoy it. I never wanted to start a fic and then just leave it hanging. But right now, I don't know how to get over the cruel things people are saying. It's hard for me to even imagine someone (or multiple people) hating a fic so much that they feel compelled to harass the author and tear them down. On top of the harassment, I've received messages from people telling me exactly how the story should go, because any other way would just be bad or wrong, threatening to stop reading it or threatening to give it a bad review if I don't write the plotlines they want. 

Someone even told me that I was lazy and selfish for not updating more frequently, and that my writing wasn't good enough to have to wait this long anyway. 

I don't really know what to say about all of that, and I am sure I will get another influx of hate mail after posting this. I just wanted to apologize to everyone and give a little insight as to why updates haven't been more frequent, and why I haven't been replying to comments and messages as much. 

Getting a compliment feels amazing - sometimes it makes my entire day, week, or month. It pushes me to write better, faster, and feel confident instead of afraid. I wish I could say insults are easy to brush off or ignore, but they hurt, especially since this is something I do in my very limited free time, without pay or other compensation, simply for the joy of writing and sharing my ideas. But the joy and fun has been completely drained by all the hate and poison filling my inbox. Any time I try to work on the next chapter, all I can think about are the cruel things that have been said and what cruel things people will have to say next. 

I also want to thank those of you who have taken the time to encourage me and leave me kind messages. I would have quit a long time ago if it weren't for the support.

Thanks guys.   
-Bo


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've posted a chapter, so I'll remind everyone to please check the tags and be aware of them before reading - as always, they apply. Thank you so much to everyone who reached out with kind words and encouraged me to keep going even when I had to step away from all the hate and poison for a while. I read every message and comment, and most of them brought me to tears. Even if I didn't reply directly (for example, all the direct messages on Tumblr) I still read them and took them to heart. I wish I knew what to say or how to thank you all for lifting me up when I was feeling at my worst.   
> Not proofread, so I apologize if there are errors. That would have taken another day or so, and I figured the sooner the better.   
> Thanks again, seriously. I don't know if you guys realize how much you've done for me or what it means to me. In short: Everything.

End of summer came too quickly, days passing like fleeting memories collected in a scrapbook, snippets of time Dean remembers fondly yet still afraid to hold them too close. The first summer away from school he’d ever craved, the first warm days he’d ever been willing to remove his sweaters and carefully built walls to join in on the fun.

He’s hidden beneath a baggy sweater now, the shade beneath the trees his lame excuse. The hammock is softer than he expected, rope woven carefully and well-used in the summers before this one. He rests his head on Cas’ shoulder, tucked against him, two puzzle pieces clicked together in the Edlund’s backyard.

Dean fell in love with Cas when they were in school, but more so during the days they were apart. It’s terrifying how much that notion doesn’t bother him. He should be panicked, reckless, desperate to keep Cas right here in the hammock until the end of their days. Maybe he is, just a little, but it’s impossible to be afraid right now; impossible to feel anything but a gentle calm with Cas’ arm cradling him and the steady heartbeat against Dean’s ear.

“I got approved for a single dorm,” Cas says, shifting slightly in the hammock. He angles himself toward Dean and hooks their ankles together. “No roommate to deal with, so you can stop by any time you want.” His lips curl into a smile atop Dean’s head.

“That’s awesome,” is the only reply he can think of, but it baits a little guilt into the rest of his thoughts. A single dorm is more expensive than sharing a room with someone else, and he feels like he’s already cost Cas and his family too much.

It’s quiet for a minute, but Cas’ hands are restless against Dean’s sweater. “My class schedule came in the mail, too. My Tuesdays are completely free, no classes or labs. Maybe we could make it a thing? You could come up every Tuesday after school, if you want.”

Of course Dean wants; they already agreed on Dean visiting each weekend, but the more they talk about it the more it starts to feel like a separation, a trial to make the heart grow fonder. He’d lived his entire life without Cas, and now he’s expected to say goodbye as if it’s nothing, a trivial matter.

He wants so badly to say _Don’t go, Cas_ , despite Cas not truly leaving. He’ll still be nearby, but further into Dean’s periphery than he’d like. He wants these gentle touches every day, needs the physical reminder that he’s not disposable.

There’s no possible way to explain it; life had always been a matter of how much he could endure, how much weight he could bear on his shoulders and still march forward. Dean feels sick with it, how light the burden seems in retrospect compared to the uncertainty of the future. Having no hopes or dreams beyond escaping after high school is so very different than a future that depends exclusively on someone else – on Cas.

“Yeah,” he says, finally, after too long of a pause. “I can walk up.”

Cas slips a hand beneath Dean’s shirt, palm resting just below his ribs. He almost considers taking his sweater off, but remembers he can’t. Len…was very much himself last night, and he’ll leave it at that.

“Maybe Alfie can give you a ride when it snows?” Cas asks, concern and apprehension lacing his voice. They both know that Alfie wouldn’t mind, that he’s practically their number one fan, but it would be awkward to drive up there and wait each time, or drop him off and come back, or even invite him up when what they really want is time alone together.

Alfie’s done enough matchmaking, and he deserves better than being a convenient third wheel.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. I’ve walked through snow before, not like it’s going to kill me. I might have the Impala running soon anyway, if I can get more time at Bobby’s place.”

Cas nods. “You know you can visit any time, right? I might have classes and homework and stuff, but if you want to come up, I’d still be happy to see you.”

Dean suppresses a smile. Pressed this close, he can feel the slight hardening in Cas’ jeans, knows exactly what he’s thinking, what he’s really suggesting. “Single dorms are convenient that way, aren’t they?”

It’s Cas’ turn to hide his smile, though he fails at it. “I just don’t want you thinking you can’t see me when you want to. This really sucks, but…it’s one step closer, you know?”

“Uh huh. I’ve corrupted you, admit it.”

Cas’ blush is almost kept secret by the heat, but he buries his face in Dean’s hair and he can hear the amusement. “We’ve corrupted each other. It’s true.”

Dean steals a kiss, hoping no one is watching them through the windows. They pull apart slowly. “One step closer to what?”

The hammock swings and nearly tips as Cas attempts to reposition position himself, sitting up awkwardly on one elbow as his free hand reaches for the chain against the back of his neck. Dean would offer to help if he didn’t feel like Rose floating precariously on the ocean, the Titanic sinking in the background. One false move and he could tip them both over.

Deftly, Cas unhooks the chain and pulls it out from under his shirt. Saint George and the Dragon dangles between them, winking in the slivers of light through the trees. He holds it over Dean’s chest, and it takes a second for him to understand what Cas is offering.

Too afraid to accept the offer, Dean just stares unhelpfully in disbelief.

Cas rolls his eyes fondly and moves slowly to keep the hammock upright, looping the chain around Dean’s neck. Dean freezes, terrified and humbled at once, too selfish to reject the gift but too unworthy to help by giving Cas easier access.

When he’s finished, Cas tucks the warm pendant under the hem of Dean’s sweater, knuckles dragging over his collarbone.

“I know what you’re going to say, but please don’t,” Cas starts, tilting Dean’s chin until they’re facing each other – full, steady, unrelenting eye contact. “This kept me safe when I was in high school, and I want you to have it.”

Dean tries turning his head away, but Cas keeps hold of his chin, firm. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Cas insists, and the sincerity in his eyes is heartbreaking. “Please, Dean. I know you don’t like gifts, but this is more than that. Think of it as a promise. It’ll keep you safe, and I’ll sleep better knowing it’s right where it should be.”

There are times when Dean doubts everything; regrets following through with Bobby’s plan, staying the night at Alfie’s and finding himself in love, regrets the egotistic moments that put himself directly in the crosshairs, put Sam and even Cas unknowingly into danger, hates each dismantled brick from his wisely-built walls that left his feelings and sense of worth at another man’s mercy. 

But this chain, this _necklace_ , it isn’t a collar. He doesn’t feel cornered or claimed. It feels earnest and forgiving against his skin, but the consequences seem the same: pathetic, harrowing pain.

Dean is not a wordsmith, not even on the best of days. He can’t force his mouth to cooperate and speak his thanks, so he wraps his arms tightly around Cas and holds him, praying for his boyfriend to understand. This is the first time in Dean’s memory that someone insisted he isn’t dispensable, an interchangeable bed warmer for someone else’s amusement.

Cas tightens his grip as well, slips his hand back up Dean’s sweater to rest there, not searching for pleasure, but for the simple sake of human, skin-to-skin contact.

If Dean were still a child, he might cry.

҉ 

The day that Cas moves into his dorm room is the day Dean expected to feel out of place and useless, but he underestimated just how far that worry would unfold.

He puts Cas’ pants in the wrong drawer, and it’s a big deal. Becky is both emotional and emphatic, nearly pushing Dean out of the way to correct his mistake.

“Pants go in the top drawer,” she says, as if such a rule is common sense. “Pants are put on first, so they go on top.”

Dean supposes it makes sense, but he wouldn’t know. He doesn’t have enough clothes to fill a dresser and his pants are either on his body or getting washed. Becky wipes away a tear as she plucks each pair out from the drawer, unsatisfied with how they’d been folded, undoing all of Dean’s work and putting them in their rightful place.

He steps back, unsure of what to do.

Everyone except for Hannah is doing their part, unpacking boxes and rearranging the provided furniture. Hannah’s gone, already set up in her own shared dorm room out of state, and Becky doesn’t seem to be handling the situation with much grace. Carver shrugs at Dean and invites him to help lift the bed, raising it enough to fit storage bins underneath.

“Empty nest syndrome,” Carver smiles, glancing lovingly at his wife. He’s speaking soft and low, and Dean wonders if his words are meant to be secret. “We still have Alfie, but two at once feels twice as heavy. Said the same thing when she was pregnant, when we had nothing but sleepless nights and endless days trying to juggle them both at once. I’m just glad there’s fewer diapers and less screaming this time.”

Dean feels old wounds tug at his heart, remembers taking care of Sammy when he still a wild waddling toddler, Mom watching from the couch with a drink in her hand as six-year-old Dean chased his little brother’s naked butt around the living room.

“Does that mean there are still some dirty diapers to deal with?”

Carver laughs, and pulls Dean into a hard side-hug followed by a pat on the back. “If there are, I’m not the man for the job. I’ve done my time.”

Alfie nudges his way into the awkward hold, whispering for help far too loudly for the small room. “I need reinforcements, stat. Mom’s organizing his shirts by color and crying.”

“I can hear you,” Becky says, and her voice is definitely quivered, unsteady from the tears still on her cheeks. “No need to comfort me. Please, talk about me some more.”

Carver sighs, and as if on cue, all of Becky’s boys rush to her side and cocoon her wilting frame, holding her up by lifting her spirits instead of her body, a circle of love and warmth and shared blood.

Dean watches helplessly, leaning against the half-lifted frame of Cas’ new bed.

Becky recovers quickly, apologizing, her boys telling her there’s nothing to be sorry for. Becky wipes at her face and explains how the separation of her twins feels unnatural, but at least one of them will be still be close. Hannah will surely fall in love and stay in Michigan, and Becky will never see her again, never see her grandbabies…

“Impossible,” Carver says, pulling her in for a kiss. “Michigan isn’t even that far away. Knowing Hannah, if she does fall in love, we both know she’d drag her sweetheart back home instead of espousing herself somewhere else. We’ll call her tonight.”

Becky nods, but excuses herself for some fresh air. Carver follows, and the moment the door shuts behind them, Alfie points to the lopsided bed and smirks.

“You should totally keep it that way, Cas. Brings a whole new meaning to freaky sex.”

“Gross,” Cas says, shoving Alfie playfully. “I don’t want to hear those words from your mouth ever again.”

“Whatever. Oh, just a little FYI, don’t think mom and dad haven’t noticed your pendant switched necks. Dad wouldn’t shut up about it and mom’s already started planning your wedding.”

Cas, to his credit, does not blush. He shares a knowing look with Alfie that goes right over Dean’s head, but it can’t be a bad thing if they’re both smiling. Dean has been careful with it, keeping it hidden beneath the layers of his clothing and taking it off at night so no one would see it. He’s not ashamed of it – the opposite, really – but it’s the only thing he owns of value other than the fading photo of his family before the fire and his dad’s old, weathered t-shirts.

Dean can’t keep up with the mixed signals, though. He’s slowly learned the difference between being treated like family and treated like a stray dog, knows Becky and Carver both approve of him dating their son, but when Becky talks about Cas belonging in Michigan, or when she cries because Dean has violated some sacred rule about clothing drawers, it muddles up his sense of belonging and makes him want to crawl under the lopsided bed.

Just as he’s always known before, it’s the one silver lining he appreciates about Len: consistency and repetition.  

They’re both staring at him when Dean finally looks up, unaware that he’d put his hand on his chest, over the pendant, subconsciously protecting it. Cas is still smiling, Alfie seems proud of himself, but as Dean stares back at them he feels utterly devoid and spent, ready to escape the confines of the small dorm. Progress is not perfection, and despite his desperate climb out of the hellfire, it’s always two steps forward and one step back.

He never knew how draining it could be to keep up with a normal family.

“You okay?” Alfie stands straighter and crosses his arms, broadening his slender frame. Cas steps forward but stops, his shirt pulled tighter around his front, and Dean knows Alfie must have grabbed him to slow his momentum.

“Fine,” Dean says, lowering his hand and tucking it in his pocket. He can’t keep giving himself away like this. He’s still not adjusted to being this goddamn transparent, and he can’t afford it if he’s going to survive school without Cas being there every morning to greet him.

Cas opens his mouth to say something, but Carver returns with Becky and a box full of Ramen Noodles, his face triumphant.

“Look what I forgot in the trunk,” Carver says, passing the box to Cas. “Classic college brain food, and I made sure to get every flavor. Caffeine helps, but nothing quite like spicy noodles to keep yourself awake during an all-nighter cram session. I started my first novel eating this stuff. Consider it a box of good luck.”

Cas laughs and sets the box on the desk, going through the packages and noting the disproportionate number of spicy flavors compared to the rest.

With the Edlund family’s attention diverted, Dean relaxes for all of two seconds before he’s submerged in a deep, hideous anger. How many years has Dean been supplied with nothing to eat but Ramen, the cheap four-for-a-dollar packets sustaining their needed calories because it was cheap and nothing else was affordable? When their mother drained the checking account as fast as she was draining boxes of wine, when a microwave was their only appliance and again when Dean was too young to figure out the stove?

This is a joke to them – an enormous supply of cheap food being used as a gag gift despite Cas’ education being paid in full and a brand-new credit card in Cas’ name linked to his father’s small fortune.

He wants to hate them. He wants to believe they’re doing this in front of Dean on purpose. Bitter ugliness turns him inside out and he slinks away, almost unnoticed, through the door before someone calls his name. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t stop, not even when he hears Cas’ voice offering him a ride. Dean skips the elevator and takes the stairs two steps at a time and then he’s out, biting his tongue until it hurts.

God, it feels like acid inside of him, burning through his heart and lungs. It’s excruciating how much he hates them sometimes, how much he hates everything under the goddamn Sun. It’s selfish and sour and so horribly unfair when they don’t deserve it, not really. There’s only so much forgiveness he can manage when the only one worthy of revulsion is himself, and he can’t forgive himself as easily as he can hate other people.

Hatred can be courted, can feel like satisfaction or revenge, especially when it’s a weapon ready at his hip waiting to be used, to be invited in.

But he can still feel the pendant, heavier now, the antithesis of everything that threatens to snuff him out.

Why does it have to be this hard? Why can’t he just love someone and be loved back? What is he supposed to do with these opposing, all-consuming thoughts?

He’s too far away to turn back now; Dean’s technically still on campus, but there’s a narrow path that leads directly down the face of the hill to the street below, and home is only a few miles down the main road and just beyond the same foot bridge he crosses daily for school.

It’s cold, and he’s so lonely and regretful that it weakens his resolve. He has his cellphone, but he can’t call Cas – not after he left without so much as a goodbye. There’s something broken inside that craves to be among his own kind, beside the demons that made him and cradle his soul, the very monsters encouraging the gross jealousy and shameful contempt for a family that warrants so much better than anything Dean can offer them.

When he reaches the end of the path, pavement beneath his shoes instead of dirt and gravel, he pulls out his phone and calls Len.

“Hey Kiddo,” Len answers, surprisingly sober. “Wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Yeah, I – I know.” Dean manages, his stomach twisting in familiar knots. “I can walk home, but I was wondering if someone could pick me up.”

There’s a slight pause, but even the sound of Len breathing feels like a small comfort. It shouldn’t be, and maybe that says more about Dean than he wants to admit. “I can get you. Your Ma is out today. Where you at?”

Dean gives Len his location, and Len promises to be there in a few minutes, reminding him to stay warm. They hang up without a goodbye, not unlike the way he left Cas and his dorm, but with Len it’s truer to their conducts, like tradition.

He stops biting his tongue and favors his cheek instead, narrowing his focus on the pain and blocking out the rest of his feelings and the sensations around him. He doesn’t want to stop – Dean needs this, dammit, like some sacred meditation through which he can channel the flood and find release or clemency for his failures, but nothing happens. He eventually stops when he tastes blood, spitting it crudely out onto the sidewalk, and the sight of it makes him want to cry – again.

Dean’s lip trembles. He misses Cas.

He’s only given a few minutes to wallow in his sorrow when Len pulls up, whistling to get Dean’s attention and herd him into the truck. He crawls into passenger seat like a shriveling serpent, thankful that there’s something in the middle where Dean’s spot is usually reserved. It’s a bag of dog food – strange because they don’t have one, not anymore – and the thought of another family pet sends a chill through his bones.

“What’s wrong?”

Dean doesn’t bother pretending like he’s okay, but he’s at a loss for words. He can’t even make sense of the warring thoughts battling in his head. Dean sighs, broken and unable to speak.

“Did he break up with you or something?” Len asks, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. Dean would roll his eyes if he could get away with it.

“No. I’m just…confused. Didn’t want to walk.”

Len nods, but Dean doesn’t check his face for an expression. They drive in silence for a while, Len stopping around town to run some errands while Dean waits in the truck, eyeing the sealed bag of dog food, wondering what the fuck it’s for. It’s getting colder and he’s tempted to turn up the heat, but he knows better than to mess with any of the buttons on the dash, no matter how long Len takes at each stop.

When they’re finally headed home, Len is aggravated and scowling about something, and based on the number of stops that were residences, Dean can guess why. Unfortunately, it means Len is equally impatient and not willing to just drop the reason Dean might have called him.  

“Confused, huh?” He prompts, and this is what Dean gets for acting before thinking things through, for being weak.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean’s heart beats so quickly that he’s surprised it’s not in his throat. Len quirks an eyebrow but hums in compliance and waits. “Your dad…you’ve always said you hated him, but did you ever love him? Maybe when you were little?”

The surprised look Dean is expecting never comes. Len appears thoughtful, like he’s carefully rolling the question around on his tongue before he speaks and brings life to the answer.

“All kids love their parents, Dean; that’s nature, right? Innate, like the drive for survival. I think maybe I loved him before I knew what love was – but you and I, and other people like us, our brains just work differently. We don’t need anyone else the way most people do. There’s a difference between love and obligation, and the moment I realized what I felt for my dad wasn’t love, but a sense of duty, _loyalty_ , was a good day. It set me free.”

They pull into their driveway, but Len doesn’t turn off the truck. He lets it idle in the dark, his fingers tapping against the wheel.

“That’s real freedom, kid. Knowing the difference between love and obligation. If I thought I loved that bastard, I never would have whacked him with that shovel. I would have hesitated, and my mom and I both would probably be dead. Cutting ties with them was easier, and I was truly free, Dean. I hated my old man and he infected me with whatever poison was in his veins when they conceived me, but I’m better than he ever was because I stopped loving him and I took the edge of that shovel and aimed right for his skull.”

Dean’s hands turn to fists in his lap. Len’s answer does nothing to help him, doesn’t make him feel any less alone, less confused. He wants to go inside and curl up under his blanket, wants to steal the truck and drive to Bobby’s, wants to do anything other than look at Len or Cas and feel this morbidly twisted inside.

“I see it in you when you look at your mom. I know the battle you’re fightin’ and I’m telling you it’s worth it.”

Something pops in Dean’s chest, he swears it, lungs deflating as he absorbs Len’s words. “What?”

“I ain’t stupid,” Len says, and Dean doesn’t bother trying to correct him on that one, “You think you’re supposed to love your mom just because she’s your mom. You think you’re supposed to love this college boy, too. But I recognize the look you give her every time you’re in the same room. You’re a hell of a lot older than I was when I figured it out, so no point in sugarcoating it.”

“You think I don’t love my mom?”

“I know you don’t. You try your damn hardest to make her happy and you think one day she’ll get better and thank you for loving her through it at all, but that’s never gonna happen. You think if you put up with all her pain and bullshit that it means you love her so much you’d endure anything just to make her smile. That’s not love, it’s obligation. I think you’ve already started to figure it out on your own, you just needed someone to say it out loud.”

Dean can’t believe what he’s hearing; this is not what he meant when he asked Len about his father. He wanted to hear _yes_ , that it’s possible to love someone but feel like you hate them sometimes. He wanted to hear that he’s not crazy for being jealous, that the painful memories erupting in his chest are a fleeting, temporary thing.

As for Mom…he loves her. Not out of some unfounded sense of obligation. He loves her because he remembers the woman she used to be, knows how much pain she’s in, how hard she used to try before giving up.

“Dean,” Len says, voice softer and gentle like an attempted caress, “you’ll be eighteen in just a couple years, done with school and a legal adult. You know what that means, right?”

No, he doesn’t. Not anymore. It used to mean getting in the Impala and never looking back, but now he has no idea what he’ll want, what he’ll be doing. He wants to be with Cas, even if he’s not good enough for him or good enough for college. He can’t leave Sam behind, and the thought of abandoning Alfie or Bella hurts too deeply to even consider it.

Dean forged those dreams when abandonment and heartache were the pillars that supported the landscape of his life, when desolation had been a constant state of being.

He shakes his head, both in answer to Len’s question and to the growing uncertainty about everything in his life. Dean doesn’t recognize himself anymore, and it’s more than just a little unnerving.

Len puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, fingers soft and grazing, until they catch on the new chain peeking out of his sweater. Len stills, then tugs on the chain until the pendant is revealed. Dean is too frightened to react, even as Len turns the pendant over and reads the inscription on the back.

Then he tugs harder, yanking Dean sideways until he’s bent over the dog food, kibbles crunching beneath his weight. He thinks Len means to break it, but he drops the pendant and puts his hand back in its original place on Dean’s neck. Len squeezes a little harder, but in a rhythm that feels more like a massage than a chokehold.

“It means freedom from obligation, Dean. It means no more pretending like Mary isn’t a burden, that Sam isn’t holding you back. No hesitating when they demand your attention or siphon your time. You have no idea what kind of immunity that grants you from unnecessary pain.”

Dean doesn’t dare move, and he refuses to speak.

“We’ll get our own place, set our own rules. No one can stop us from being together. Once you finish growing up and shed those silly fantasies of yours, and accept that what you feel is obligation instead of love, I can show you what real love is supposed to be like. I can make you so happy, Dean, as soon as you stop pretending that their happiness depends on you, when you wake up in real world and recognize them for the burdens that they are. You’re blinded by some unwritten contract tethering you to their needs like it’s your duty to sacrifice yourself for them.”

Dean is shaking so hard that he grabs at the sack of dog food to steady himself, but he can’t stop the tears from falling. He cries like a baby, stupid for calling Len, for walking out on Cas over a box of goddamn Ramen. He was supposed to go to dinner with them, one final meal as a family before each twin was officially out of the house. Instead he’s here, crying into kibble, hearing the most terrifying future he never imagined for himself.

Len…he thinks they’re going to live together. He honestly believes they’re in love and will live out a nauseating Happily Ever After. Of all the terrible things Len has done, this tops the list and it’s all Dean’s fault. He asked for this the moment he dialed Len’s number.

As Len’s fingers smooth their way into Dean’s hair, a revelation hits him so hard that he stops breathing, throat closing and heart pounding harder against his chest than he thought possible.

He’s still living in a burning house, no way out, trapped by the flames in every direction except his bedroom window, two stories off the ground. Dean honestly thought he’d been saved that day, his real father a beacon of selfless courage, but life merely swapped one burning house for another. He chokes on the billowing smoke day after day, year after year, with no safety net if he ever chose to climb out his window and jump.

There’s only ever been two choices for Dean: die slowly in the growing flames as everything burns around him, or die quickly on his own terms. He’s been staring out the window his entire life, unmoving, a pyre at his back while he’s been too busy staring longingly out the window to notice.

“Is that what Mom is to you? An obligation?”

There is nothing left to lose, not with Len fueling the flames and standing between Dean and his only way out.

Len doesn’t answer, nor does he release Dean’s neck or make any change at all. For all Dean knows, Len might not have even heard him.

He does, however, change the subject rather quickly. His thumb slips down to trace along Dean’s jawline, to rub little circles on his cheek. “Today was a difficult one for you, wasn’t it?”

Dean huffs. There’s no point in answering the obvious.

“I’d say I’m sorry for ripping off the band-aid, but I’m not. You’ll get there eventually, kid, and you’ll know I’m right.”

The tears slow and his breath hitches, and when he pushes himself up from the uncomfortable position Len put him in, Len doesn’t try to stop him. He keeps a hand on the back of Dean’s neck, though, still tenderly kneading the muscle there.

Jumping out the window is starting to sound more appealing.

Dean doesn’t brush away the moisture on his face, but he hangs his head and exposes more of his nape. It’s not quite submission, but it _is_ a sign of defeat.

“Did you kill him?” Dean whispers, staring down at his jeans and remembering the stupid faux pas in Cas’ dorm. He’s heard Len’s story more times than he can count, but the detail of Len’s childhood valor always ends with the shovel and nothing that happened after. Dean didn’t really want to know, or maybe it never mattered before, but now it does. Self-defense or not, _survival_ or not, he needs to hear whether Len is monster capable of murder, or a monster that prefers slower methods of torture. He knows what torture at Len’s hand feels like, and he certainly hasn’t forgotten his flirt with death when Len lost control, but he needs to know exactly how far Len will go to get what he wants.

Len finally turns the key and the truck dies, the air between them eerily silent.

“As good as,” Len says, another half-answer. “In all the ways that matter.”

Dean reaches for the handle, desperate to leave the truck and silence behind, but Len tells him to wait. Dean leaves his hand on the door, but doesn’t give his step-father the satisfaction of eye contact.

“I see so much of myself in you, kiddo. Might be ‘cause I raised you, but I don’t think that’s it. You’re just like I was at your age. I know you’re pissed, and probably scared of me after…what happened. But that’s how I know, Dean. I know you pretty damn well, but you’re a hell of a lot more forgiving than I ever was. But that soft side you protect, it’s just gonna drag you down. I want you to be happy, and you’ll never be happy if you keep taking responsibility for your momma and Sam.”

“I love them, Len.”

“You’re obligated to them.”

“You don’t make me happy, and I sure as hell don’t love _you_.”

Len doesn’t miss a beat. He actually breaks out a smile. “There’s that anger. But it’s not really _me_ you hate, is it? You hate _yourself_ , and I’m willing to bet a part of you, a damn big part, hates that Catholic boy too."

“No. I love him.”

“Which is exactly why you left early and called me, huh? ‘Cause you love him so much?”

Dean buries his face in his hands, begging himself not to cry, not again, not in front of Len when he’s talking like this.

“I gave you the whole summer, didn’t I? Let you be gone as long and as often as you wanted. I gave you the space you thought you needed. You don’t have to make sense of everything right this minute; it’s a lot to take in at once with all that denial you’ve got going on. But it’s just you and me tonight, and I’m real glad you called. I’m thinking burgers a movie, yeah?”

_No_ , Dean wants to say. _Fuck_ _you_.

“And I know I apologized already, but I’m gonna do it again. It’s like your testing me, seeing how far you can push me until I snap or leave. You know I don’t like that Castiel punk, and you know you’re trying to make me jealous on purpose, but take a good hard look around you. Everyone leaves you, don’t they?”

Dean shakes his head, but it feels like a lie.

“Your mom ain’t here. Haven’t hardly seen Sam all summer. You see your fancy-ass side-family when they invite you, but only when _they_ want to see you, not the other way around. Who’s the one person always here for you, no matter that the fuck else is going on? Who did you call for a ride today? Who picked you up immediately, even though they were busy running other errands?”

Trembling so hard he can barely move his fingers, Dean swings open the truck door but forgets to unbuckle the seatbelt, his poor attempt at breaking free halted ironically by a device meant to keep him safe. Len grabs Dean’s hands and pulls him back in, not quite bending him back over but jerking him close enough that he can feel Len’s breath against his skin.

“Say it.”

Dean tries yanking his hands free, but Len is stronger than he looks and has the advantage of Dean being trapped by the godforsaken seatbelt.

“Admit it, and I’ll make it worth your while. But I’m tired of this old song and dance where you act like you’re better than everyone else, like you have anyone on your side but me.”

“Fine,” Dean spits, still trying to break free but failing in the most embarrassing way. “It’s you, okay? It’s always been you.”

It is the worst moment of Dean’s life. Somehow, inexplicably, so much worse than his father dying, than his mother buying that first bottle of wine to drink by herself, than Len beating him black and blue. He tells himself it’s a lie – he has friends, not many, but quality outweighs quantity, and that’s a universal truth. Cas loves him, but up until today they were just kids at the mercy of their parents’ approval. Not like they could just do whatever they wanted when they wanted to, not without permission first. And no matter how often his mom or brother are gone, no matter how little they try to keep the peace, they just don’t _know_. They don’t know what Dean does to protect them, and it was never about getting a gold star and a thumbs-up. It’s not information they need, and he’s never been interested in breaking his mother’s heart with the truth.

Len releases his grip and Dean goes straight for the buckle, freeing himself and jumping out of the truck. He thinks about running, but as usual, there’s nowhere to run to.

Len grabs the bag of dog food and then reaches in the truck bed for groceries Dean hadn’t noticed before. It’s not much, but as he rounds the truck and steps in front of Dean, he passes him the dog food to carry.

“What’s this for, anyway?” Dean asks. It’s been bothering him since the moment he saw it, and he’d rather talk about anything else than continue the one-sided conversation they shared in truck.

Len unlocks the door and they trudge up the stairs, dropping the bags on the kitchen counter. “Attitude adjustment,” he answers, and Dean has no idea what that’s supposed to mean. He doesn’t care to find out.

They put the groceries away in silence, but Len pulls out everything they need for burgers from the fridge, apparently still planning on a date night. Dean heads straight for his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and removing his sweater. He’s already one foot in the water, and maybe if Len sees Dean wearing the pendant without shame or secrecy, he’ll get the point. Passive-aggressive tactics like this are more Sam’s game and rarely do they work, but right now there’s nothing left to lose. Maybe if he’s lucky, Len will have another freak-out and beat Dean to death. It would hurt, but at least Dean wouldn’t have to do it himself.

He stays in his bedroom for as long as he can, until the smell of well-seasoned burgers and homemade, deep-fried french fries is too overwhelming to ignore. He’s starving, missed out on dinner with the Edlunds and never got around to eating breakfast before he left.

Dean cleans his face and washes his hands in the bathroom first, feeling dirty and touched, but no matter how hard he scrubs he can never quite clean the feeling away.

Len smiles at him and doesn’t seem to mind the pendant at all. If anything, he’s appreciative that Dean came out with fewer layers of clothing hiding his body.

His dinner is waiting for him on the coffee table beside Len’s, in front of the television just like Len promised. Dean sits on the couch, and takes his first bite, and it’s so good he savors it and almost licks his fingers. The cheese is melted perfectly and Len even fried up some eggs with a flawless yolky center that drips onto his plate, right on top of the fries.

Len hands Dean the remote, and he has to set his burger down and wipe his hands with a paper-towel napkin before he takes it.

“Pick whatever you want,” Len offers, his own plate still untouched. “But do me a favor, will ya?”

Dean nods and waits for Len to explain. He knows when he’s been defeated, and Len didn’t just conquer him tonight; he crushed Dean mercilessly and the fight inside him is gone.

“I know I told you to stop pretending, but this is…well it’s a little different than that, okay? I want you to imagine that this is two years down the road, just you and me. This could be us, Dean – I’ll make your favorites, we can have movie nights like you used to love when you were a kid. And…” Len trails off, looking almost nervous. Dean starts to lose his appetite.

“…and I know I’ve been selfish with you. Taking more than giving, you know, which is my fault. I’m glad you called me today, and I think you deserve a break. Let me get you off so you can relax and we’ll have a good night. You don’t have to do anything in return, okay?”

Yeah, _no_. Dean’s appetite is completely gone. “I’m…not in the mood.”

Len still looks nervous, which is so fucking unnatural and strange that Dean has no idea what to do with it.

“I know I gave you a lot to think about today. I know you’re hurting,” Len says, hands already working at Dean’s belt. Dean tries to sink into the couch, clutching the remote so hard it changes channels until the home shopping network plays in the background.

“Please, Len, I really –”

“Stop,” Len interrupts, nervousness fading into irritation. He’s losing his patience and Dean has cried enough for one day. “I didn’t want to force that confession out of you in the truck, but you were never going to admit it without help. Do I need to do that again? I meant what I said – I want to have a great night tonight, just you and me, but it’ll be easier for both of us in the long run if you just admit it without me having to drag it out of you.”

Dean can’t soften the grip he has on the remote, and the channels keep changing every time he flinches.

“You love this, always have, and it’s been a long time since I’ve done it for you, right? Accept my damn apology and then we eat and watch whatever you want. I’m not making you do a goddamn thing other than sit there and feel good.”

When Len finally has Dean’s jeans and boxers out of the way, Dean drops the remote and covers his mouth with his hand. He’s soft – much too soft for what Len wants to do – but he has no doubt his body will betray him and get hard anyway.

Len goes to work, and Dean’s hand balls into a fist and he bites down, but the pain isn’t nearly strong enough to distract him. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine it’s Cas’ head between his legs instead, but it’s all wrong. In the end, Dean comes with a muffled whine and Len tucks him away before kissing the side of his neck.

Dean’s chest is heaving and his face is flushed, fingers numb and tingly from the force of clenching his fist so tightly, from biting his hand so hard he left a white indentation pattern of his teeth.

When all is said and done, after the movie and eating as much as he could stomach, Dean lies in his bed with his cellphone open, Cas’ number half dialed. It’s in the middle of the night, and Cas’ dorm phone was the first thing they set up and tested out, making sure it worked. He doesn’t know if Cas ended up staying the night there, or if he stayed in his family home after their last meal together before classes start. He calls the number anyway.

It rings, and rings…and rings. Cas’ voicemail greets him, and though it’s not the same, it’s still good to hear his voice.

Dean doesn’t leave a message. He doesn’t even know what he would have said if Cas had answered his phone.

҉     ҉     ҉ 

The first day of school as an upperclassman feels exactly the same as being Sophomore. The only difference is having a new locker and a different class schedule.

Dean doesn’t know how he feels about sharing only one class with Alfie. Their advanced math class is ridiculously small as promised, only five students total and they’re all there to work; no more annoying chatter and distractions during the lecture or uncomfortable stares from Seniors shocked to see someone two years behind them in the same class, as if Dean’s presence offended them and made them feel inferior.

Alfie is the only other Junior, and the Seniors don’t seem to care.

They pick seats next to each other, of course, but they’re both too engrossed in the work for small talk. They haven’t spoken since Dean ran out of Cas’ dorm, but it was only two days ago and Alfie seems to be in a cheerful mood. When the class is over, Alfie walks with him and starts talking as if nothing weird happened in the first place. Thank fuck for small miracles.

Of his other five classes, Bela is in three of them.

She’s a natural in English, and should probably be taking AP Composition instead of World Literature, but Dean is grateful to have her. Even their teacher is impressed with her in-depth character analysis of their summer reading assignments, and her ability to recognize the metaphorical and symbolic meanings behind seemingly innocuous props and placements puts them all to shame.

On the bright side, it means Dean can tutor Bela in Math and she can tutor him in English. Dean isn’t exactly bad at it, he just doesn’t care enough about literature to put much effort into understanding it. He doesn’t even think most of the detail is meant to be some secret allusion. Sometimes rain is just rain.

When it’s time for lunch, Bela finds him at his locker and loops an arm through his. They’d look like a proper couple if it weren’t for the common knowledge that Dean is both “gay” and dating a college student, and that Bela openly detests most relationships. It doesn’t stop Alfie from watching them with narrowed eyes, especially when they find seating alone, far enough away from most people without giving Dean’s old table of friends a second glance.

Not that he’d come from a large group of friends last year, but he did sit with the Edlund siblings and _their_ friends, and he can’t bring himself to sit there right now with Cas gone, not after the weekend he just endured. Alfie may have pretended earlier like nothing was wrong, but he’s too afraid of the idea that Alfie waited for their lunch period to ask him questions, to poke and prod at fresh wounds, or to give him updates on Cas.

Cas never called him back, even though Dean didn’t leave a message. He still would have seen the missed call from Dean’s number.

He catches Alfie watching them for nearly the entire hour, playing an uncomfortable game of eye tag that only makes Dean worry more.

Bela does all the talking, mostly moaning about insufferable classmates or devising elaborate pranks to pull on the teachers she doesn’t like – ones he knows she’ll never follow through on, but are funny and interesting to listen to nonetheless.

At the end of the day, Alfie practically corners him and he can tell the smile on his face is forced. He offers Dean a ride home just as Bela approaches them, her backpack riddled with holes and no jacket over her slender frame.

“Trying to steal my walking partner, Alfred?” Bela smirks, giving Alfie’s shoulder a playful punch. Dean still doesn’t understand how someone who hates physical contact can be okay with initiating it. Probably something to do with the power of control, if he had to guess.

Alfie’s smile drops and he takes a step back. “Just offering my best friend a ride. It’s kind of drizzling out there.”

“What a wonderful coincidence – Dean and I are practically neighbors. We’d love a ride.”

Alfie swallows and glances at Dean, his expression flat and calculating. He turns to Bela. “Who are you?”

Bela tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh please. I’ve met your brother and Dean and I have been pals for some time. No need to play cold, Alfred. Interesting that you rank your friends as well; do the others know they come in second place?”

Dean shakes his head, not in the mood for whatever kind of pissing contest this is, and his fears have been confirmed; Alfie’s trying to get Dean alone to talk to him. The last time that was on his friend’s agenda, he received a lightly veiled threat not to hurt his older brother. He doesn’t want a repeat or a reminder that he’s obviously lacking in some way. Besides, Alfie could just text him if it’s that big of a deal.

“It’s not Alfred, Bela, you know that. But…yeah, I think I’m just gonna walk today. I don’t mind a little rain,” Dean adds, knowing there’s no way in hell Alfie would extend his offer to Bela, giving them both a ride home. Must be nice to have your parents buy you a car, but Bela doesn’t even have the luxury of a warm sweater.

Alfie concedes easily without a fight, telling Dean he’ll see him later. Bela stands a little taller, proud of herself. “I like Cas, but I could do without his annoying little brother.”

“Bela,” Dean pleads, exhausted, “He’s my friend, and has been for a long time. Don’t do that, please.”

She folds her arms across her chest, but nods. “He started it.”

“We’re not five years old. That’s an invalid argument.”

Bela pouts theatrically, but tugs on Dean’s sweater so they can get a move on. The rain is only supposed to get worse, and if they wait much longer then they’ll both end up soaked.

She’s clearly freezing the moment they step outside, but Dean doesn’t help this time. He’s given her several sweaters, none of which he’s ever seen her use after the day he gave them to her, and he’s down to his last two. He’s tempted to rub her arms or something for some friction, but he can’t. There’s something inside him that makes him feel sick about it, predatory, partially because he knows how much she’d hate it, and partially because he can’t just touch people the way Bela can.

“I’m having another party,” she says as they reach the footbridge. Dean hums in acknowledgement, but they’ve been through this before. “One of these days I’ll convince you to come, and you’ll like it. There’s a reason people become alcoholics, you know.”

“Reasons I’d rather avoid.”

“It’s all about moderation,” Bela retorts, slowing to a pause. The little overpass is covered, saving them from the rain even if it’s only temporary. “I’m going to stay here a while. Go on home without me.”

Dean shrugs. He’s tempted to stay too, to watch the cars pass beneath and waste a little time before he returns to the last place he wants to be. It’s Monday, and even though Cas hasn’t called him back, he should get to see him tomorrow after school.

But Sam is probably already home, and Mom might be waiting in the window for him. He doesn’t want to make either of them wait or worry.

He tells Bela goodbye, then tells himself his family is _not_ an obligation, even though right now it feels an awful lot like he’s going home for them and nothing else.

Dean calls Cas again, knowing he’s in class, but leaves a message. Maybe this time he’ll get a call back.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, there's no "cheating" tag because there is no cheating, even if it might seem like it's heading in that direction. No one cheats now or in future chapters. Just wanted to clear that up in case anyone suspected or wanted to ask. 
> 
> As always, enjoy the chapter and heed the tags/warnings, and thanks to everyone who has sent me such wonderful and thoughtful comments. You guys are the best.

Dean makes it through Tuesday without walking up to the campus. And the Tuesday after that.

Cas had never called him back, and that was…it was okay. Cas is busy, and Dean can’t pretend like he understands the magnitude of college life. His Tuesdays might be free, but there must be homework, study groups, the gym – Dean saw how much there was to do for the students when he tried to help Cas move into his dorm room. He’s adjusting, too, probably making new friends and analyzing the enormous board of flyers advertising clubs and sports and various meetings at the Rec Center.

But he can’t pretend like it doesn’t hurt, either.  There’s nowhere for Dean to go to escape Cas’ absence. Whether it’s seeing Alfie at school, walking by the gym where students play soccer, the cafeteria, the pendant beneath his shirt – Cas is everywhere and nowhere at once. He’s there when Dean tutors Bela in math, all around him when he’s alone and hiding in his bedroom, his name spelled in full in Dean’s contacts list.

Dean’s dreams are the worst; he can think of nothing else, and suddenly he’s thrust into consciousness with Cas’ name on his lips, waking into a nightmare.

It’s pathetic, really, how far Dean has slipped in such a short time.

By Friday, Dean is sitting with Alfie again during lunch. Alfie seems glad to have him back, doesn’t pressure him to explain or defend himself. He also doesn’t mention his brother, but the jury is still out on whether that’s a good thing or not.

Honestly, it just feels so strange; the person who had carried him through such deep, murky water suddenly dropped him midstream and now his only focus is to stay afloat. He hasn’t tried to call again since Monday. Being abandoned is one thing, but begging someone not to leave you behind is so much worse.

Bela and Alfie kinda seem to be getting along – all thanks to Alfie, and no thanks to Bela. She treats others the way Dean sometimes fantasizes, unafraid to pick apart their soft, Downey-fresh lives and tell them how spoiled they are. Alfie takes it and joins in on the laughter; either he doesn’t know he’s the brunt of the joke or he possesses far more empathy than Dean gave him credit for.

It’s not like Bela is outright calling the Edlunds a bunch of snobs, but her disdain for anyone above the poverty line is loud and unavoidable. She says things Dean wishes he had the guts to say without sounding sorry for herself. Alfie’s car, for example: Not new but gently used, low mileage and a modern model with a rear camera when going in reverse. He jokes that his mother is overly concerned about safety, and Bela jokes that yes, sometimes people forget they have working legs and simply walking is _oh so dangerous_.

Dean can’t argue with that. It’s not the world outside his home that scares him.

Alfie never fails to offer Dean a ride home from school, but it hasn’t been that cold since school started and he prefers the slower route anyway.

The unavoidable downside is that with every offer, Alfie looks more and more concerned. The false smile does nothing to hide the edge in Alfie’s voice or the way he side-eyes Bela on the way to the parking lot. It makes Dean so paranoid, like Alfie knows Bela harbors far too much resentment for him and that his attempt to corner Dean alone keeps failing.

Using Bela as a shield against the unknown does nothing to help the growing guilt Dean feels over their forced, awkward triangle. And yeah, he’ll say it: Cas is an asshole for not calling him back.

“I’m going to convince you to come to my party, Winchester,” Bela drawls, slow like honey. Across from them sits Alfie, who’d been paying far too much attention to his sandwich but finally decides to look up. He lifts an eyebrow at Dean, who simply shrugs.

“I don’t like parties. I’ve told you this.”

Bela bites her plastic fork in a way that feels a little too much like foreplay. It’s a game to her, alright, but not one that ends in sex. Alfie wouldn’t know this, which is probably why his eyebrows knit together as he tries to hide his glare.

“True, but you’ve never been to one of _my_ parties. They’re not like the ones you see on television, you know, with the mosh pits and dancing and drunken pool parties. No expensive glass vases to break in my home, either.”

Alfie squirms in his seat. “He said he doesn’t like parties.”

Bela turns her attention to Alfie, smoothing the fork over her lips. “Jealous much, rich boy? I bet your parties involve caviar and martinis.”

“They don’t party, Bela,” Dean interrupts, feeling split in two. Friendships never came easy, but why must every aspect in his life be a test of choice? “Alfie hosts some awesome gaming sessions, though.”

“Gaming sessions,” Bela smiles, more wicked than kind, “Naturally, you’d have the expensive gadgets and the latest games. Boys and their toys, I swear.” She leans back in her seat and rests her head on Dean’s shoulder.

Alfie isn’t hiding his glare anymore, and Dean wants to shrivel into a mound dust and scatter.

“If you weren’t such a buzzkill, Alfred, I might invite you too. But your parents wouldn’t approve, would they? Associating with the riff raff is a cardinal sin.”

“What is your problem?” Alfie drops his food and his knuckles go white against the table. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen Alfie like this before. “My dad wrote some successful books, get over it.”

“You’re so touchy for being a trust fund baby. How difficult this must be for you,” Bela deadpans, her head still on Dean’s shoulder. Dean suddenly feels like he’s caught in the crosshairs between his mother and Len, a silent bystander too afraid to intervene.

Alfie looks to Dean for support, but Dean can’t meet his eyes. He’s a coward.

“You’re a bitch, Bela.” Alfie leaves his tray on the table, grabbing his bag and storming off. Bela has the audacity to giggle, like anything about this could be funny.

Dean doesn’t want to be touched by her anymore. He wiggles his shoulder and moves out from under her weight, putting a little space between them. Bela stops laughing, switching back to her serious face as if she has the right to be offended.

“Someone put a bee under your bonnet?”

Dean sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do you do that, Bela? You know he’s my friend.”

Bela considers his words for a moment, a hint of a smirk on her face. “A girl can’t have some fun? His life is easy and it’s up to the rest of us to make sure it stays that way? A little push now and then isn’t going to kill him.”

“He’s my _friend_ ,” Dean says, heart racing. “I’m not trying to push him away, and he hasn’t done anything to deserve being pushed. Can you give it a rest?”

The bell rings and the cafeteria slowly empties around them. Bela sits quietly and taps her fork against her lips, and it takes Dean a few minutes to realize she’s playing a new game now. It’s a cold shoulder, but he doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to leave her alone or break through the silence.

Too confused and flustered to figure it out, Dean gets up from his seat and slings his bag over his shoulder, telling Bela to have a great fucking day, and heads towards the main doors instead of to class.

He’s not one to skip class, but Dean isn’t made of stone. He’s balancing his life precariously at best, trying not to look down at just how far he could fall.

Outside, he takes a deep breath of the cooling air and tries to steady himself. His thoughts are a swirled mess and he attempts to focus on his feet moving forward, one after the other.

Behind him, Bela calls his name. He pauses, almost frozen, but doesn’t turn. He can’t even sort out his feelings towards her right now. He’s angry and carrying too much hatred on his shoulders as it is.

“Not like you to go home early, Dean,” She says, softly and close. When Dean doesn’t reply, when he _can’t_ reply, she slips her fingers between his and squeezes his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” he chokes out, feeling the jagged edges of a panic attack creeping in. He tries to remember the last time he felt this close to losing it, but summer had been kind to him at the Edlund’s, and having Cas within reach certainly helped. It’s like someone snipped his tethers and he can’t think straight without something to ground him.

Bela squeezes his hand tighter, bordering on painful, and the panic starts to ebb. He steals another deep breath and looks around, still too ashamed to make eye contact.

Another voice shouts loud behind him. “Hey!”

He turns on instinct, reacting to the urgency in Alfie’s voice. He’s walking toward them, staring at where Dean’s hand is gripped tightly to Bela’s. It dawns on him then, what Alfie must think.

“Hey,” Dean replies, stupidly. His brain is working too slow to even figure out how Alfie knew to find them out here.

“What are you doing?” Alfie looks so pissed, not even acknowledging Bela’s presence. His eyes are on Dean now, only Dean, and whatever fire Alfie’s stoking can’t be a good one.

Dean swallows. “I…I think I’m gonna go home.”

“Skipping math class now, huh?”

Bela steps in front of Dean, not letting go of his hand. For a split second, Dean knows this can’t possibly end well, but he lets himself slip back into denial.

“What do you want, Alfred?”

“It’s Alfie,” Dean supplies, unhelpfully. Not like Bela intends to stop.

“What is going on between you two?” Alfie steps forward into Bela’s space, but his eyes are trained on Dean like a bloodhound on the hunt, narrowing in on its kill. “What the hell is this?”

“None of your business,” Bela snaps back, her voice and poise all venom. “Go on back to class now, Alfred. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your grades and reputation.”

Alfie finally turns to Bela, and the hatred between them is so thick that Dean thinks he’s going to suffocate in it. “Will you knock it off? I’ve been putting up with your shit since school started and quite frankly, it’s getting a little old.”

Well, this is definitely a side of Alfie Dean has never seen. Of course Dean would be the one to bring out the darker side of him. He seems to have that effect on people. Without the patience or heart to hear any more of this, Dean wiggles his hand free and starts walking toward the overpass.

“Dean, come on, come with me. Get in my car,” Alfie pleads, and it’s like a serrated blade driven straight through his heart. He stops again, and wonders if this is what life will be like for the rest of his days. If he’ll always be caught between picking sides and sifting through shades of gray in search of the lesser evil.

It’s not much of a future to look forward to.

“Dean prefers to walk, if you don’t mind.” Bela is quick with the retorts today, acting like she’s been appointed as Dean’s spokesperson. He wonders if that’s his fault too, if he gave her the impression he needed someone to speak for him.

“Bela, stop,” Dean says, no fight left in him, the panic slithering back in and squirming in the pit of his stomach. “Like I told you before, Alfie is my friend, okay? If you guys have shit to settle, just leave me out of it.”

When Dean turns to look at Bela, to beg her to end the unnecessary madness before it blows out of control, her expression is far from what he expected. She’s calm on the surface, calculating, and suddenly Dean realizes what she’s been up to this entire time.

“No,” he says, but the dice have been rolled. It’s too late.

“He’s your friend, hmm? But he doesn’t even know you.” Bela moves slowly so that she’s positioned beside Alfie, forcing Dean to look between the two of them.

Alfie jerks away, not wanting to be so close to her. “I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer than you have.”

“Have you?” Bela says, pretending to think, tapping her temple. “And what do you really know about our Dean, darling? Do you know the _real_ him, or do you just like the idea of befriending someone beneath you?”

Dean’s heart is racing out of control and his breaths are shallow. He can feel his fingers going numb.

“What are you talking about? He’s my best friend, and nothing else matters. Just what are you implying, anyway? You think you know him better because, what, you’re fooling around or something?” Alfie asks, completely serious. He thinks Dean is cheating on Cas and…maybe that’s why Cas never called him back. Maybe it’s already over and Dean was just slow on the uptake.

He can hear his heart breaking, he’s certain of it.

Bela laughs at the same time Dean shouts _No, are you kidding me?_ At least he thinks he shouts it; it’s hard to tell when all the noises are blending together.

“If there’s something going on between you two, you need to tell me. You owe me that much.” Alfie is like an entirely new person built with vile suspicion and far more courage than Dean will ever be capable of.

“Dean doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing. If you ask me, it should be the other way around. He bends over backwards to make you happy and you have the balls to call him a liar and a cheat. If you had any idea what Dean –“

“Bela!” Dean cuts her off, terrified of the many ways she could end that sentence, none of which are things deserving of the breath it takes to tell them. “Bela, it’s fine, okay? Just…stop, both of you. I’ll go with you, Alfie, but _this_ ,” he says, gesturing between his only friends, “this doesn’t work for me. I’ll see you later, Bela.” He gives her a sharp glare, one he knows she’ll forgive.

“Come to my party,” is her only answer, said in such a way that doesn’t leave much room for debate. “Come to my party next weekend, and I’ll play nice. Promise.”

Dean stares at her, unable to figure her out. He thought he understood her plan just a moment ago, but now he’s not so sure. She’s bargaining for something, but he doesn’t know for what. She smiles at him, as if this whole situation has left her unaffected, not miffed in the slightest.

“When is it?”

Alfie sighs. “You’re not seriously going, are you?”

Dean ignores him in favor of hearing Bela’s answer. She twirls her hair around her finger. “Next Saturday. My father will be gone.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, his insides twisted up and unsettled. He doesn’t know if it’s the panic or something deeper beneath the surface he can’t see. “I’ll go.”

“See you later Dean. You too, Alfie,” Bela chirps, all too delighted, but finally saying his name right. Maybe she was sincere about playing nice.

Alfie and Dean stand awkwardly in the parking lot as Bela saunters away, heading toward the overpass Dean wishes he could be on right now. He doesn’t want to go with Alfie, but the only tool in his belt is quiet acceptance and whatever path of least resistance has the fewest casualties. He still feels like he’s lost, somehow.

When Bela is out of sight, Alfie waves his hand for Dean to follow him. He does, dragging his feet, like a prisoner being walked to his execution. He shouldn’t be so dramatic, but he can sense the end of something drawing near, like a crippled death omen hovering just above his shoulder.

He sinks into the passenger seat, dropping his backpack between his knees. Alfie starts the car, and quiet music starts to play from the stereo. For what feels like an endless amount of time, neither of them say anything, and Alfie doesn’t drive. They just sit in the parked car and let the music fill the space between them.

Then Alfie shifts, slowly adjusting his weight so that he’s facing Dean, and begins to speak. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, man, but I need you to be honest with me.”

Yeah, Dean regrets this immediately. He’s a self-made liar, born from necessity. There aren’t many truths he can offer to keep everyone safe. He nods anyway, biting his lip, staring down at the center console.

“Are you cheating on my brother?”

This question, at least, he can answer truthfully. “No, it’s not like that.”

“She hangs all over you, puts her head on your shoulder, holds your hand…you know cheating doesn’t just mean sex, right? Do you have feelings for her? I don’t get it.”

“It’s…” Dean doesn’t know how to explain it to someone like Alfie, or anyone for that matter. He can’t give the details without giving other things away. “I’m not attracted to her, and she’s not attracted to me. She just…I mean, she gets it, she knows my boundaries.”

Alfie tilts his head, so similar to Cas that it makes his heart ache. “You don’t like to be touched.”

“Exactly.”

“But she can touch you?”

“It’s not that simple.” Dean leans his head back against the headrest, giving up. “She doesn’t like to be touched either. I guess the fact that neither of us like to be touched makes it easier.”

Alfie blinks at him, the annoyance and ire slipping into something closer to sorrow, to pity. Dean wants to bury his face in the sand and never resurface.

“I might not get it, Dean, but that’s all you had to say. You can tell me things, you know, instead of leaving me to guess. I’ve seen how close you and Bela got over the summer, then school started and it was like you were attached at the hip. You’ve never been like that with me or Cas, how was I supposed to know? And then she spouts all this crap about knowing you better…I mean, does she?”

Dean fails at dodging the question. “Does she what?”

“Know you better than me, or even Cas.”

The song changes to something upbeat and pop, offsetting the dire mood in Alfie’s car. Dean knows he must answer this question carefully, he just doesn’t know how. He never prepared for the eventuality that he’d have friends outside of the Edlund family. That’s all he ever knew, Alfie scaling his walls in junior high and practically taking him under his wing. Dean never thought he needed anyone else, or that someone like Bela would drop into his life and turn everything upside down.

Dean tugs at his sweater, pulling the hoodie up over his head, a weak attempt at hiding. “I don’t think so,” he starts, calculating each word like a math problem. “She just knows me…differently. Her dad is like my mom. We live in the same neighborhood. Stuff like that.”

An indescribable expression takes over Alfie’s face; Dean doesn’t react to it, unable to figure out what it means. He just wants Alfie to stop asking questions. It’s one thing to scale his walls, and another to start tearing them down.

“Like your mom,” Alfie echoes, almost amazed. “You don’t talk about her much.”

The fine hair on the back of Dean’s neck stands up on end, his skin prickling with goosebumps. “And with Bela, I don’t have to. That’s all it is. She gets it without needing an explanation. I know she’s been difficult and you have every right to be pissed, but you’re both my friends and there’s nothing else I can say about it. I’m not cheating.”

Alfie seems to accept that, relaxing back into his seat and shifting the car into reverse. “I might not get it like Bela does, but I’m not stupid and sheltered. I’d understand, Dean, whether you believe it or not. And…” Alfie trails off, looking as conflicted and torn as Dean feels. “I’ve always been too afraid to ask, but, I feel like I need to know. Are you –”

“Don’t,” Dean says, unaware that he’s whispering. “Don’t ask.”

Alfie doesn’t speak another word. He almost looks relieved, and it sends a chill through Dean’s spine. _This is why_ , he wants to say. _This is why it’s so much easier with Bela._

Alfie drives them out of the parking lot, and Dean feels guilty that they’re both missing class, that Alfie is missing class because of him. He’s so tired of dragging people down.

When Alfie misses the left turn after the overpass, going further down the road until he gets in the right light lane and turns on his blinker, Dean dares to break the silence. “Where are we going?”

“Taking you to see Cas.”

Why does that make Dean feel so betrayed? “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’s the best idea. He’s been worried since that first Tuesday when you didn’t show up.”

Dean tries to wrap his mind around that flawed piece of logic. “I called him, and he never called back. Guess he’s a pretty busy guy.”

They head up the road toward the University, and with every passing second, Dean grows more anxious. Alfie doesn’t say anything until they’re almost there, when Dean is ready to crawl out of his skin.

“Well, look at it from Cas’ point of view. You didn’t show up Tuesday, and then didn’t show up on the Tuesday after that, he probably thinks you’re mad at him.”

“He could have just called me back.”

“Right, but maybe he was afraid to call you back because he didn’t want to make things worse. If he thought he did something wrong, Cas would bend over backwards to make it right, but you’re not the easiest person to read.”

Dean bites his tongue, literally, so hard that he tastes blood by the time Alfie parks in the guest lot outside Cas’ dorm hall. Everything is Dean’s fault, as usual, and having Alfie step in like some kind of marital counselor only makes it worse.

“Isn’t he busy on Fridays?”

Alfie shakes his head, but then shrugs. “Kinda. He has early classes and a lab in the evening. He’s free right now. Let me call me him down.”

Dean grabs his bag from the back and steps out of the car before he can hear Alfie make his call, before Alfie tries to further their conversation or ask any more questions. He’s excited to see Cas and yet hates himself so for it, hates that he depends so much on one person to make him feel real and loved. Refusing to visit him was more self-punishment than revenge for Cas not calling; not that he’d admit it out loud. He wants to hate Alfie, too, for confronting him and forcing him here, but he can’t.

Alfie’s right, and Dean shouldn’t have been avoiding him either. There’s just too much going on at once these days, a different kind of torture than he’s used to.

Dean heads up the steps and swings open the door. There’s a student at the desk in front of the entrance to Cas’ hall, eying Dean like a security threat with his dark hoodie and hunched figure. Dean ignores him, sitting on the bench to wait. Alfie will have already called Cas, and Cas should be on his way down. The guy clicks away on his computer, back to his game or whatever it is college door guards do.

Sure enough, Cas comes through the doors with a reserved smile and waves him in, saying hello to the student behind the desk like they’re old pals. There’s a throng of other students hanging out in the lounge, all waving to Cas and inviting him to play pool, asking who the cute boy is behind him.

“My boyfriend,” Cas answers smoothly with a hint of pride. It reminds Dean of when Cas was still in high school, when they first started dating and people took notice.

Several of the girls start squealing like they’ve just hit the jackpot, laughing, saying _he’s real! His boyfriend is real!_ As if they’d been betting on it. Perhaps they were.

Cas joins in on the laughter, but says he’ll see them later. His group of friends whistle and tell him to put a sock on the door, and Cas blushes. It’s kind of cute.

They take the elevator, and Cas wastes no time pulling him in close. He holds Dean carefully in a gentle hug, kissing the top of his head. “I’ve missed you.”

Goddamnit. Dean can’t be mad anymore, even if he tried. “I’ve missed you too.”

Their lips meet just as the elevator reaches Cas’ floor, and thankfully no one is waiting when the doors slide open and Cas leads him towards his dorm room.

The last time Dean had been here, it was bare and being filled with the essentials. Now the walls are covered in cork boards and pictures, plenty of family, but the entire wall beside Cas’ bed is decorated with pictures of Dean – pictures of just him, of him and Cas together, of Dean with the Edlunds. He didn’t even know these pictures existed.

“Whoa,” is all he can think to say, sitting on Cas’ bed to get a closer look. There’s even a photograph of Cas and Dean cuddling on the hammock, taken from afar. He wants to feel violated, invaded and deceived, but he can’t suppress the warmth spreading through his limbs at the sight of it all.

They cared enough to save memories of Dean in their lives. There are no pictures hanging up in Dean’s house. Mary doesn’t even own a camera.

There are older pictures tucked away in Mary’s dresser, a couple family photos like the one Dean has in his bedroom. Back when she was still trying to piece their lives back together, she ordered the school pictures but claimed she couldn’t afford to frame them, or that the she couldn’t afford the damage charges if she put in a nail in the wall to hang them up. They filtered through a series of rented squalid homes, pictures ultimately finding a home in a taped box that she hasn’t opened since.

Then Len came around, and though their living conditions didn’t exactly improve much, at least they were able to stay in one place.

He thinks of all the family photos displayed proudly in the Edlund house, staring at the collection of snapshots hung around Cas’ dorm. He wonders if pictures are truly important in the end, or if they just make people feel better by having proof people love them. Dean can’t know for sure, but seeing his face all over the wall, smiling or laughing or just at peace, does make him feel a little more important. More proof that he’s real, that he exists.

Maybe if they can afford it, Dean will ask for a camera for Christmas. It’s not a holiday they celebrate much, but Dean hasn’t asked for anything in years. Might have more luck asking Len.

“I know you don’t like to be in pictures,” Cas says, sounding embarrassed, “but Mom can be persistent. I hope you don’t mind.”

Dean wonders where Cas got that impression – has Dean ever said he doesn’t like photos? He can’t seem to remember the finer details of his memory anymore.

“No, it’s great,” he replies, embracing the warmth. God, he doesn’t even know what to call this feeling. It’s like he’s stumbled onto a shrine dedicated his face. He looks at his smiling faces again and feels overwhelmed. Dean’s so used to the general sense of being unhappy, he forgets all the moments when happiness found him and lifted him out of the darkness.

Cas pulls him into another hug, settling beside him on the twin bed. “My friends didn’t believe I’m dating a model. They thought I made you up.”

Dean tears his eyes away from the wall. “I’m hardly a model,” he says first, not looking for Cas to tell him otherwise. “But you’d think these pictures are evidence enough.”

“Photoshop can do amazing things these days. They basically call it my porn stash. I don’t mind, though. I’m just lucky to have you.”

Something squirms in Dean’s stomach again, the words at odds with everything Dean’s felt in the past few weeks. If Cas felt so lucky, returning a phone call would be easy.

Dean leans into the hug, unsure of what to do. They’ve never been alone quite like this. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

Cas stills, just long enough for Dean to sense it. He regrets asking the question, not sure he wants the answer anymore, afraid to ruin however much time they have together. Eventually Cas relaxes and puts his hand on Dean’s chin, turning his head so that they’re looking at each other. “I’m really sorry. When you didn’t come, I thought maybe you were really busy or something, and I didn’t get the voicemail until late. I figured I’d see you the following Tuesday anyway, but then you didn’t show up again and I thought…nevermind. You’re here now.”

“Tell me,” Dean demands, because he has to know. Had Alfie been feeding him lies about Bela? Did he not get the rest of Dean’s calls?

Cas scratches at the back of his neck, looking away. “I thought you were mad at me. I don’t know. I thought I’d done something wrong. I’ve been so busy with school and soccer and homework that I haven’t had the chance to call you back at a decent hour.”

Dean sighs. If only Cas knew how many hours Dean stayed up long after the sun went down, staring at his phone in the hopes of a miracle.

“It’s okay,” Dean says, even though it’s not. The evidence is all around him; Cas loves him, and he thinks that’s more important than unrequited phone calls. After all, this is uncharted territory for both of them, and it’s not like Dean knows what’s normal and what’s not.

“I’m still sorry,” Cas offers, planting another kiss on Dean’s temple. “Remember what I said?” Cas points to the picture of them on the hammock, the pendant already around Dean’s neck. He had no idea they were being watched. “It means a lot to me that you’re wearing my pendant. I feel like I can sleep easier knowing you’re safe, but there’s more I wanted to say. I know I don’t have a lot of free time anymore, but I’m working really hard so we can have a real future together…if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” Dean blurts on impulse, so foolishly. He hates sounding desperate.

Cas grins, suppressing laughter, and Dean can tell his cheeks are flushing red. He tries to hide it, but Cas brings his palm to Dean’s heated face and pulls him into a kiss, slow and steady.

They kiss for a while, enjoying the tender pace and inching closer, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Dean’s been through too much today, like he’d been plucked from the ground and dropped into a blender. He’s used to the oppression and sickening situations he’s forced into at home, but school had always been a source of respite. After today, his safe place had been robbed from him and he doesn’t want to go back, though he knows he doesn’t have a choice. Len was right about one thing – in a couple short years, Dean will be 18 and none of this will matter anymore, though he sure as hell doesn’t plan on joining Len in his fucked-up fantasies.

Cas doesn’t break the kiss, but he gently pushes them both down on the bed, rolling himself on top of Dean and pushing his sweater up. Dean’s too caught up in the moment to protest, not thinking about what bruises or marks might be revealed. He lets Cas peel him out his sweater, exposing the tight but faded shirt stretched across his chest.

Cas skims his fingers up Dean’s sides, splaying his hands in a way that almost tickles but feels too good to resist. Dean returns the favor, tugging Cas’ shirt over his head and tossing it somewhere on the floor. Cas’ hands return immediately, clenching Dean a little tighter, lower by his hips.

Normally, this is when they’d start to strip away everything else, when they’d nervously explore each other with eyes on the clock, Cas pulling out a condom and some lube as a question more than a request. Instead, Dean’s too riled up and wound tight to be patient, torn between conflicting desires warring through his head. He wants to take Cas apart, wants to drag out this moment forever and get lost in it, but his body is a tightly pulled rubber band ready to snap at any second. He can’t stretch himself any further without breaking.

Dean struggles to quiet the rage ricocheting in his skull, reminding himself that he’s safe here, that he doesn’t have to put on a show. In a rare act of defiance, he ends his internal struggle by just taking what he needs without explanation or apology.

When their lips meet again, Dean is rough and demanding, daring to bite Cas’ lip until he gets with the program. Cas gasps in surprise but doesn’t fight it, clearly aroused by the change of pace if the hard length pressing into Dean’s hip is anything to go by. He rocks up into Cas, pulling him tighter, and Cas matches him thrust for thrust.

He’s fearful that Cas might try to stop them or slow the rhythm, or that he’ll pause long enough to grab a condom, because it’s not what Dean wants. He always wants Cas, in any way he can have him, but Dean’s consumed by the cacophony of noise and voices in his head and he refuses to stop. He shifts his leg into a better position, around Cas’ hip to keep him from pulling away, but Cas is kissing him just as fiercely as if there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather do.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean shudders with a noisy breath that makes Cas moan and his hands find purchase on Cas’ back, enough that Dean can thrust faster, harder, until he’s coming in his pants, sticky and wet.

Cas seems lost in his own world, moaning against Dean’s ear as he pushes even harder into the movement as Dean’s hips slow and finally still. Cas chases his own release, smearing the come in Dean’s underwear until it’s a tacky mess, until he comes minutes later and collapses on Dean’s chest, breath heavy.

They kiss again, this time languid and lazy with contentment. When Dean cracks his eyes open, he steadies his vision and combs his fingers through Cas’ sweaty hair. The break apart before the mess they made in their jeans gets too uncomfortable. Dean can feel himself stuck to his briefs, but he doesn’t mind. The rush of endorphins smooths over the raw wounds of the day, the panic gone. He doesn’t want to move, even when Cas climbs off the bed and retrieves his shirt. He could lie on Cas’ bed all day.

Cas grabs a washcloth from his wardrobe, then searches around for a water bottle to wet it with. He cleans himself first, offering an apologetic smile when he realizes Dean could use a good scrub too, and folds the washcloth until he finds a clean enough surface. He passes it to Dean before falling into his desk chair, wiping the sweat from his face with the collar of his shirt.

Dean does his best to tidy himself up, but it’s cold and a little slimy, so he gives up and drops the rag into Cas’ hamper. His legs feel a little wobbly, but in the best possible way. Cas wraps him in another hug, steals another kiss, then hands him his sweater.

Dean takes it and puts it on, even though he’s feeling a bit too warm to wear it, and as he pulls his head through and adjusts the hoodie, he sees Cas standing with Dean’s bag in his hand, handing that over too.

Carefully hiding his confusion, Dean accepts his backpack and looks to Cas for an answer.

“Promise you’ll come see me on Tuesday?”

Oh. Okay. Dean is being told to leave.

He puts on a smile, letting it sink in, questioning his actions. Did he push Cas too far? Did he take too much too quickly? Alfie said Cas would be free until his evening lab class, Alfie said this was the best idea, Alfie…

“Yeah,” Dean says, dumbfounded, wishing he had just slowed down and taken whatever Cas wanted to give him. He could have stretched this into an hour or more at least if he had just thought it through. He darts a glance at the mural of pictures again, reminding himself that he’s important enough to take up space on Cas’ wall.

Had Alfie brought him here for a booty call?

“Sorry, I know it’s short, but I have to get a bunch of stuff ready before intramural sports and then I have to get to the biology lab. We’ll have more time on Tuesday, I promise. But this was…really nice,” Cas says, but it only makes it worse.

“Yeah, nice,” Dean agrees, face heating for an entirely different reason. All that’s missing is Cas tucking a wad of cash into his pocket.

Cas guides him across the room, a hand low on Deans back, and tells him how much he loves him as he opens the door to usher him out. “Do you need a ride?”

“No,” Dean says, afraid to take more than what’s already been offered. “It’s not a long walk, I’ll be fine.”

Another kiss on his temple, but Dean doesn’t look at him as he heads down the hall toward the elevator. He hears Cas’ door click shut, and there’s a sense of finality to it like this exactly what Dean should have expected. He tried not to beat himself up over it, knowing Cas is busy every day except Tuesday, that coming here on Alfie’s command was never meant to lead into a long stay or even much conversation.

He doesn’t bother looking for Alfie’s car in the parking lot, knowing he’s not there, knowing how much more humiliating it would be if Alfie had waited to take Dean home anyway.

Dean’s not a whore, and Alfie sure as hell isn’t his pimp, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s just been used in a way that’s all too familiar.

Maybe Dean’s been wrong about everything. Maybe this _is_ love, people just using each other for what they need and saying sweet things to justify it.

There’s a tiny part of him that still refuses to believe that. What he feels for Cas is unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and he’s got Saint George around his neck to prove it. Everything they’ve been through together adds up to so much more than just _this_.

Cas is busy. Cas is a college man now. Cas is just a couple years ahead and doing exactly what he should be. Cas isn’t cold or cruel or dismissive. Cas isn’t Len.

Yet none of those mantras stop Dean from punching a tree so hard that his knuckles bleed and his hands are as bruised as his heart.


End file.
